UC-NRLF 


553 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 


HILLS  OF  SONG 

BY 

Clinton  Scollard 


BOSTON 
COPELAND  AND  DAY 

MDCCCXCV 


COPYRIGHT    BY    COPELAND    AND    DAY     1895 


LO  !    I   HAVE   FARED  AND  FARED  AGAIN 
FAR   UP   AND   DOWN   THE  WAYS  OF  MEN, 
AND  FOUND  NO   PATH   I  STRAYED  ALONG 
At   HAPPY  AS  THE   HILLS  OF  SONG. 


271494 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

Taillefer  the  Trourere  Page     i 

The  Blue  Arras  4 

Sunrise  on  the  Alps  7 

My  May  9 

The  Seekert  10 

The  Walk  n 

The  Fairies'  Pool  1 3 

Sea-fog  14 

Tfe»  Old  Desire  15 

The  Comrades  16 

On  the  Edge  of  the  Wood*  17 

The  Old  Gate-keeper  1 8 

By  the  Stream  at  Sunset  19 

The  Mariner's  Grave  ai 

The  Dormant  Strain  »i 

The  By-path  ai 

The  Sexton  «4 

The  Violet  Bank  »5 

The  Crickets  by  Lake  Huron  »6 

Wild  Plum  «7 

A  Bell  *S 
IN  ITALIA 

The  Shepherd  of  the  Liro  33 

Memories  of  Como  J4 

Nuova  Luna  3$ 

The  Phantom  Gondolier  37 

A  Venetian  Sunset  39 

On  a  Copy  of  Theocritus  40 

The  Falling  of  the  Burrs  4» 

A  Florentine  Garden  43 

The  Bells  of  Fossombrone  45 


Ex  ORIENTE 

Al  Mamoun  ri 

Dawn  in  the  Desert  53 

Karoon,  the  Pilgrim  54 

Hassan's  Tomb  56 

The  Rose  of  Fayum  57 

The  Dervish's  Prayer  58 

At  the  Funeral  of  Abdallah  59 

The  Vengeance  of  Kafur  6 1 

The  Arab's  Horse  64 

In  a  Bazaar  66 

Christmas  at  Marsaba  68 

From  an  Eastern  Oriel  74 
MADRIGALS 

Vive  la  Bagatelle  79 

The  Sweet  o'  the  Year  80 

A  Cavalier's  Valentine  81 

With  Some  White  Hyacinths  in  Winter  83 

Ingle  Song  84 

Be  Ye  in  Love  with  April-tide  85 

A  Spring  Glee  86 

Roses  of  June  87 

Strawberries  87 

A  Summer  Song  88 

Wild  Thyme  89 

The  Even-Song  90 

A  Perfect  Day  91 

The  Bowers  of  Paradise  91 

Holly  Song  91 


TAILLEFER  THE  TROUVERE 

THEY  sailed  in  their  long  gray  galleys,  they 
tossed  on  the  narrow  sea, 
Till    dim    in    the    mists    of  morning  were   the 

shores  of  Normandy. 
They  were  sixty  thousand  warriors,  with   never 

a  fear  at  heart; 
They  were    knights    and    squires  and    yeomen, 

adept  in  the  soldier's  art; 
They  were    knights    and    squires  and    yeomen, 

whose  school  was  the  press  of  men, 
Whose  alphabet  was  their  armor,  whose  sword 

was  their  only  pen; 
And  none  of  the    bold  war-farcrs,   though  the 

flower  of  the  land  was  there, 
Bared  braver  brow  to  the  south  wind  than  Tail- 

lefer  the  Trouverc. 

No  laugh  like  his  at  the  banquet,  no  hand  like 

his  on  the  lute, 
No  voice  like  his  in  the  courtyard  to  banter  the 

brawlers  mute; 
And  never  from  lip  of  a  jester  did  a  blither  quip 

take  wing, 
And  never  on  caitiff's  cuirass  did  t  nobler  brand 

outring. 
But  song  was  the  soul  of  his  living;  aye!  song 

was  the  breath  of  his  life; 
He  had  taken  song  to  brother,  he  had  taken  song 

to  wife. 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

In  the  tide-pulse  of  the  ocean,  in  the  wild  wind- 
pulse  of  air, 

There  was  more  than  mortal  music  to  Taillefer 
the  Trouvere. 

They  have  harried  the  coast  of  Sussex,  they  have 

harried  the  coast  of  Kent; 
They  have  trod  the  soil  of  the  Saxon,  and  come 

to  his  peaked  tent,— 
To  the  fortressed  hill  of  Senlac,  that  out  of  a 

marsh  uprears, 
Where  the  golden  Wcssex  dragon  is   hedged   by 

the  gleam  of  spears. 
They   have  girt  them  tight  for  the  onset,  they 

have  leaped  in  line  for  the  fray; 
What  manner  of  man  shall  lead  them,  shall  show 

them  the  victor's  way  ? 
To  be  first  to  fall  on  a  foeman  what  manner  of 

man  shall  dare  ? 

Neither  valorous  knight  nor  bowman,  but  Tail 
lefer  the  Trouvere. 

In  front  of  the  foremost  footman   he  spurs  with 

a  clarion  cry, 
And  raises  the  song  of  Roland  to  the  apse  of  the 

glowing  sky. 
A  moment  the  autumn's  glory  is  a  joy  to  the 

singer's  sight, 
And  the  war-lay  soars  the  stronger,  like  a  falcon, 

up  the  height; 


TAILLEFER  THE  TROUVERE 

Then  springs  there  a  Saxon  hus-carl,  with  thews 

like  the  forest  oak, 
And,  whirling  a  brand  of  battle,  he  launches  a 

titan  stroke; 
A  sudden  and  awful  shadow,  a  blot  on  the  azure 

glare, 
And  dawn   in  a  world  unbordcred   for  Taillefcr 

the  Trouvere. 

Shall  song  overspan  the  ages  for  the  Duke  men 

name  the  Great, 
Who  founded  the  walls  of  empire  on  the  ruins 

of  a  state  ? 
Nay!  not  unto  him  our  greeting  across  the  flood 

of  the  years, 
With  the  countless  slain  ensanguined,  and  bitter 

with  mourners'  tears; 
But  unto  the  soul  of  the  singer,  to  him  of  the 

fearless  heart, 
Shall  our  hail-cry  strengthen   starward  o'er   the 

seas  that  have  no  chart; 
For  song  was  the  love  of  his  lifetime,  and  he  met 

death's  chill  eclipse 
On  the  verge  of  the  fight  at  Senlac  with  a  song 

upon  his  lips. 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 


THE  BLUE  ARRAS 

V  I  XWAS  the  night  of  a  bitter  frost 
JL    In  the  vale  of  the  Bishop's  Praise, 

And  the  face  of  the  moon  was  lost 
In  the  white  of  a  spectral  haze. 

The  voice  of  the  wind  was  whist 
Where  the  Hall  hung  over  the  lake; 

But  the  logs  on  the  fire-dogs  hissed 
Like  a  serpent  roused  in  a  brake. 

Rich  were  the  walls  of  the  room 

With  the  trophies  of  wealth  and  fame; 

But  the  Bishop  cowered  in  the  gloom 
Aback  from  the  searching  flame. 

Never  an  eye  he  cast 

On  all  that  the  years  had  won; 
But  he  shrunk  from  the  sight,  aghast 

At  a  deed  that  was  like  to  be  done. 

Though  it  stung  his  touch  like  a  thorn, 

At  a  tiny  scrip  clutched  he 
That  read,  "  Come  thou  at  the  morn, 

Or  I  die  on  the  gallows-tree!  " 


THE  BLUE  ARRAS 

And  the  sign  that  was  set  thereto 
Was  his  only  brother's  sign. 

The  sputtering  flame  burned  blue, 
And  the  deer-hound  gave  a  whine. 

But  still  did  the  Bishop  brood 
As  the  moments  sped  amain, 

And  his  o'erwrought  outer  mood 
Showed  the  battle  within  his  brain. 

"  Tarry  !  "  the  Tempter  cried; 

"  Why  save  what  has  little  worth  ? 
'Twcrc  better  that  such  should  bide 

Under  five  warm  feet  of  earth  ! 

••  When  rancor  and  strife  are  rife, 
Forsooth,  'twere  a  foolish  thing 

To  rescue  the  worthless  life 
Of  t  rebel  against  the  King ! 

"  His  leagues  of  land  shall  be  thine 
From  the  plain  to  the  eagle-perch, 

And  brighter  thy  name  shall  shine 

On  the  brow  of  the  Mother  Church.0 

Then,  born  of  an  old  desire, 

The  Bishop  saw,  as  he  sat, 
Take  form  in  the  core  of  the  fire 

The  red  of  a  cardinal's  hat. 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

So  he  said  to  his  soul,  «« 'T  is  done  !  " 
And  it  seemed,  for  a  breathing  space, 

That  the  Tempter's  words  had  won, 
By  the  look  on  the  Bishop's  face. 

But  sudden  the  flame  shot  up 

Till  it  set  the  room  ashine 
Like  the  bowl  of  a  crystal  cup 

Aflood  with  the  gold  of  wine. 

And  the  hangings,  one  and  all, 

The  marvel  of  Artois  skill, 
Wavered  upon  the  wall 

Like  boughs  when  the  wind  hath  will. 

Wrought  on  a  blue  as  bland 

As  the  softest  sky  of  spring, 
At  the  Bishop's  own  command, 

There  was  many  a  sacred  thing. 

All  of  the  saints  most  fair 

Who  had  fought  for  the  faith  and  bled, 
From  Jesus,  the  Christ,  were  there, 

With  a  halo  about  the  head. 

And  lo  !  as  the  Bishop  gazed, 
With  the  firelight  still  at  flood, 

Each  raptured  face  grew  hazed 
With  a  blurring  mist  of  blood. 


SUNRISE  ON  THE  ALPS 

But  rvery  eye  was  clear 

And  burned  like  a  living  coal, 

While  the  wrathful  rays  pierced  sheer 
To  the  depths  of  the  Bishop's  soul ; 

And  each  thin  lip  seemed  to  frame 
A  word  that  stabbed  like  a  blade  ; 

For  he  thought  it  the  hated  name 
Of  him  who  the  Christ  betrayed. 

Froze  in  his  throat  the  prayer 
So  glib  on  his  tongue  before, 

And  down  from  his  carven  chair 
Slipped  the  Bishop  upon  the  floor ; 

Groveled, —  abashed,  abased,— 
Shorn  of  each  shred  of  pride  ; 

And  he  lay  there,  downward-faced, 
Till  the  glowing  firelight  died. 

But  when,  with  their  clear  "  God-speed/' 
Rang  the  bells  to  the  day  new-born, 

Astride  of  his  swiftest  steed 

Rode  the  Bishop  to  meet  the  morn. 


SUNRISE  ON  THE  ALPS 

HARK  !  how  the  wakened  echoes  ring  ! 
The  blaring  of  the  Alpine  horn 
From  peak  to  peak  goes  quavering 

7 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

Through  all  the  slumbering  isles  of  morn. 
The  first  faint  line  of  sunrise  fire 

Along  the  cloudy  east  is  drawn, 
And  one  by  one  the  stars  expire 

As  rings  the  anthem-peal  of  dawn. 

Come  forth!  and  taste  the  winy  air 

While  yet  the  dews  are  opal-bright ; 
Come  forth!   and  speed  with  thankful  prayer 

The  shadow  of  the  wings  of  night ; 
Come  forth!  and  watch  the  unsullied  snows. 

Range  after  lofty  range,  expand  ; 
Come  forth!  and  see  the  morning's  rose 

Burst  o'er  the  Bernese  Oberland. 

Swift-smitten  by  a  transient  ray, 

A  lordly  pinnacle  of  ice 
Becomes,  in  some  mysterious  way, 

A  giant  spray  of  edelweiss  ; 
And  on  the  horizon's  utmost  bound 

From  peak  to  cloud  one  may  espy, 
Round  rising  over  rainbow  round, 

A  Jacob' s-ladder  scale  the  sky. 

The  west  has  felt  a  flush  of  flame 

That  sets  its  forest  heart  astir, 
And  breathes  the  radiant  morning's  name 

In  symphonies  of  pine  and  fir. 
The  lower  mists  are  backward  rolled, 

And,  as  the  crowning  splendors  burn, 


MY  MAY 

They  kindle  into  lambent  gold 
The  blue  enamel  of  Lucerne. 

Now  every  heaven-aspiring  height, 

From  mountain  pole  to  mountain  pole, 
Reveals  to  the  enraptured  sight 

Its  evanescent  aureole. 
The  scars  the  breast  of  nature  wore 

Are  thrown  in  such  divine  eclipse, 
The  soul  of  man  is  dumb  before 

The  dawn's  supreme  apocalypse. 


MY  MAY 

HARK  to  the  joyful  sound  !  to  the  revel  of 
rills  ! 
The   buds   have   leaped    into   leaf  on   a   thousand 

hills ; 

The  only  snow  is  the  snow  of  the  orchard  spray  ; 
She  comcth  across  the  land,  my  May,  my  May  ! 

There  springcth   a   fire   at   the   root   of  growing 

things  ; 
There  stirreth  desire  at  the  heart  that  awakes  and 

sings  ; 

The  breast  of  the  blue  is  shot  with  a  brighter  ray  ; 
She  cometh  across  the  land,  my  May,  my  May  ! 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

She  cometh  with  kindling  eyes  and  with  morning 

smiles, 
O'er  the  sapphire-shining  seas   from   the  golden 

isles  ; 
Her  breath  is  that  of  the  jasmine  bloom  and  the 

bay  ; 
She  cometh  across  the  land,  my  May,  my  May  ! 

She    quickencth    drowsing     hope     by    her    calm 

caress  ; 

She  bringeth  us  heart-content  for  a  balm  to  bless  ; 
O,  to  lure   her  feet  awhile  from  the  June-ward 

way  ! 
She  cometh  across  the  land,  my  May,  my  May  ! 

But   enough  !     She   cometh.      Rejoice,    my   soul, 

rejoice  ! 

Join,  O  my  voice,  with  the  universal  voice, 
To    hail    the   dream-delight    of  her   dream-brief 

stay  ! 
She  cometh  across  the  land,  my  May,  my  May  ! 


THE  SEEKERS 

FRIEND,  I  pray  thee,  who  be  they 
That  do  roam  adown  the  day 
With  such  lorn  and  lifeless  stride, 
Wan  of  face  and  weary-eyed  ? 
Ho  !  ye  wanderers  pinched  and  pale, 


10 


THE  SEEKERS 

On  what  long  unbeaten  trail 

Go  ye  ?  —  on  what  unknown  quest  ? 

Thus  tbt  bapltss  ones  confessed,  — 
"  Seek  we  east,  and  seek  we  west, 
For  the  sacred  chrism  of  rest. ' ' 

"  Hold,"  the  curious  questioner  said, 
"  For  a  space  thy  toilsome  tread  : 
Haply  nearer  than  ye  dream 
Is  the  balm  ye  so  esteem  ! " 
Then  upon  him  full  they  turned 
Eyes  in  whose  dull  embers  burned 
Longing,  as  a  sleepless  guest. 

"Ab!  "  they  sighed,  «•  then  were  we  blest, 
Seeking  east,  and  seeking  west, 
For  the  sacred  chrism  of  rest." 

«'  I,"  the  questioner  said,  "  will  guide 

To  the  boon  so  sanctified  ; 

Follow  me,  and  ye  shall  see 

Where  the  haunts  of  heart's-case  be  !  " 

Wotted  then  the  seekers  well 

*T  was  the  angel  Azrael, 

And  they  bowed  at  his  behest. 

"Aye  !  "  they  answered,  ••  it  is  best  ! 

Seeking  east,  and  seeking  west, 

We  have  found  the  chrism  of  rest." 


il 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 


THE  WALK 

I  WOULD  go  forth  among  the  hills 
The  green,  crest-climbing  lane  along, 
For  now  the  cup  that  morning  fills 
Is  brimmed  with  light  and  song. 

And  I  would  hail  as  "  comrade  mine  " 
Each  soul  soe'er  that  seeks  and  sees 

The  overtures  of  One  divine 
In  dawn's  antiphonies. 

Up  shall  we  mount  until  we  find 
The  pinnacle  of  prospect  won, 

And  see  the  sinuous  stream  unwind 
Its  silver  in  the  sun. 

Our  spirits,  purified  of  haste, 

By  dews  of  freedom  cleansed  of  care, 
Shall  laugh,  and  leap  anew,  to  taste 

The  largess  of  the  air. 

The  wide  outreachings  of  our  sight 
Yon  purple  ridges  shall  not  bind, 

But  only  some  Andean  height 
Horizoning  the  mind. 


THE  FAIRIES'   POOL 

By  radiant  apotheosis 

To  Eden  earth  shall  seem  re-born  : 
So  shall  we  find  the  chrism  of  bliss 

Upon  the  hills  of  morn. 


THE  FAIRIES'   POOL 

OVERHEAD,  the  maple  branches  mingle, 
Sigh  and  sough  in  breezes  ever  cool ; 
Underneath,  where  dips  the  darkling  dingle, 
Lies  that  liquid  glass,  the  fairies'  pool. 

Rare  the  ray  that  lights  its  brooding  beryl  — 
Sunshine,  moonshine,  or  the  starshine  pale  ; 

And  its  dusky  depths  seem  paved  with  peril 
To  the  wanderer  in  that  lonely  vale. 

There  's  a  legend  that  the  white  leaves  whisper  - 
Poplar,  birch,  and  aspen,  softly  blown  — 

That  from  spring  till  autumn  airs  grow  crisper 
Water  fairies  hold  it  for  their  own. 

Such  a  brood  as  in  our  dreams  beguile  us, 

Visions  of  dead  Arcady  re-born, 
Kin  to  that  bewitching  shape  that  Hylas 

Followed  down  to  death  one  golden  morn. 

Fain  were  I  to  let  the  legend  linger, 
No:  to  dagger  its  frail  life  with  fact, 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

Though  the  real  lift  a  scornful  finger, 

Cry —  "  Romance  is  but  a  barren  tract  ! ' 

Should  the  singer  turn  his  back  on  beauty  ? 

May  there  not  be  meaning  in  a  myth  ? 
Is  it  now  the  poet's  highest  duty 

But  to  aim  at  pungency  and  pith  ? 

Shall  we  clip  the  mounting  wings  of  fancy, 

And  imagination  rein  by  rule  ? 
Nay  !   I  hail  the  olden  necromancy  !  — 

This,  wood-mirror  is  the  fairies'  pool. 


SEA-FOG 

OUT  of  the  sensuous  sunlands  of  the  south 
On  wings  of  gold  a  lustrous  spirit  came, 
The  smile  of  summer  lingering  round  her  mouth, 
Her  languorous  eyes  noon-fervent  as  with  flame. 

Out  from  the  pallid  aisleways  of  the  pole 
A  somber  spirit  sped  adown  the  sea  ; 

Snow-raimented  as  is  the  shrived  soul, 

Wan-browed  and  weird  and  spectre-like  was  he. 

Somewhere  upon  the  landless  void  these  twain, 
In  that  dim,  dateless  aeon  of  the  dead, 

Met  as  they  moved  above  the  mighty  main, 
Loved  with  immortal  rapture,  and  were  wed. 


THE  OLD  DESIRE 

From  this  strange  union  was  one  daughter  born, 

A  lithe,  elusive  creature,  evermore 
Blinding  the  stars,  bewildering  the  morn, 

And  winging  like  a  wraith  from  shore  to  shore. 

With  the  soft,  white  persuasion  of  her  lips 
More  to  be  feared  than  all  the  sirens  she  ; 

Snared  by  her  spells,  how  many  stately  ships 
Will  sail  no  more  the  blue  paths  of  the  sea  ! 


THE  OLD  DESIRE 

THERE  kindles  within  my  breast 
Ever  the  old  desire, 
When  wavers  along  the  west 
The  maple's  beacon-fire. 

It  *s  oh  !  to  be  out  on  the  hills 

Over  the  dead,  dull  plain, 
To  hear  the  autumn  rills 

Echo  the  far  refrain  ; 

To  pluck  the  milkweed's  down 
From  its  prison  within  the  pod, 

And  mint  the  gold  for  a  crown 
From  the  ore  of  the  golden-rod  ; 

To  taste  the  oil  of  the  nut 
That  is  racy  ripe  at  the  core, 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

And  the  tang  in  the  flag  root  shut 
By  the  singing  rillet's  shore  ; 

To  drain  from  the  bounteous  cruse 
The  purple  wine  of"  delight, 

To  dream  the  feet  of  the  Muse 
Arc  twinkling  along  the  height  ; 

To  gather  all  gracious  gain 

In  sight,  in  scent,  and  in  song, 

Against  the  ruin  of  rain, 

And  the  winter  white  and  long. 

I  see  it  along  the  west, 
The  maple's  beacon-fire, 

And  there  kindles  within  my  breast 
Ever  the  old  desire. 


THE  COMRADES 

ALONG  the  highways  of  the  year, 
The  only  paths  that  have  no  end, 
Two  comrades,  tried  and  true  and  dear, 
Go  hand  in  hand  as  friend  with  friend. 

Indifferent  are  they  if  the  dawn 

Withholds  its  crimson,  or  the  noon, 

Behind  a  veil  of  grey  withdrawn, 
Denies  its  amber  for  a  boon. 


16 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  WOODS 

The  rain  may  scurry  up  the  glade, 
And  blur  the  sunset's  brilliant  book, 

Their  faces  in  the  twilight  shade 
Will  ever  wear  the  rainbow  look. 

All  life  to  them  is  light  and  large 
With  summit  prospects,  if  they  stray 

By  sere  December's  rimy  marge, 
Or  by  the  bloomy  shores  of  May. 

From  dales  of  doubt  and  peaks  of  care 
No  woe-winds  blow  with  chill  annoy  ; 

They  walk  in  earth's  diviner  air, 

These  comrades  leal,  Content  and  Joy. 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  WOODS 

MIDWAY  between  the  glare  and  gloom 
In  this  cool  twilight  let  us  lie  ; 
Around,  a  fringe  of  golden  bloom, 
Above,  an  arch  of  leafy  sky, 
And  breezes  blowing  blandly  by. 

List  to  the  wood-choir's  swelling  praise  ! 
The  hermit-thrush  is  chorister  : 

Down  all  the  deep  and  dusky  ways 
The  choral  melodies  concur 
With  soft  profundos  from  the  fir. 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

If,  where  the  sunlight  dints  the  shade 
With  amber  dimples,  some  astray 

Four-footed  thing  our  view  invade, 
Although  it  perk  and  whisk  away, 
No  discord  jars  the  rhythmic  day. 

Here  all  is  harmony,  and  here 
Care,  garment-like,  is  cast  aside  ; 

Ours  is  the  vision  of  the  seer  ; 

And,  since  our  dearest  dreams  abide, 
The  yearning  soul  is  satisfied. 


THE  OLD  GATE-KEEPER 

AS  you  turned  from  the  town,  and  the  valley 
forsook, 

Lured  onward  and  up  by  the  brawl  of  a  brook, 
There  broke  on  the  sight  such  a  tiny  abode, 
The  gate-house  that  stood  at  the  bend  in  the  road. 

Long,  long  to  the  hill  with  its  sheltering  breast 
It  had  cuddled  as  close  as  a  bird  to  its  nest  ; 
And  never  came  night  but  its  window-panes  glowed 
With  a  welcome  flung  out  at  the  bend  in  the  road. 

The  quaintest  of  mortals  had  lodging  therein, 
With  the  dream  of  a  dimple  asleep  in  his  chin; 
And  a  bow  like  a  prince  which  he  fondly  bestowed 
When  he  flung  wide  the  gate  at  the  bend  in  the 

road. 

18 


BY  THE  STREAM  AT  SUNSET 

Though  his  stock  was  askew  and  his  wig  was  awry, 
The  laugh  and  the  lustre  that  leaped  from  his  eye 
Told  his  heart  held  the  love  of  his  kind  for  its  code, 
The  odd  little  man  at  the  bend  in  the  road. 

He  would  brood  by  the  hour  o'er  his  one  window- 
box, 

With  its  old-fashioned  blossoms,  sweet-william 
and  phlox, 

Yet  the  cloud  always  fled,  and  the  mirth  ever 
flowed, 

When  a  wanderer  paused  at  the  bend  in  the  road. 

His  life  had  its  story,  'twas  whispered,  and  woe 
Had  crushed  the  fair  flower  of  his  hopes  at  a  blow  ; 
And  yet  to  the  last  he  made  light  of  his  load, 
The  brave  little  man  at  the  bend  in  the  road. 

Now  he  sleeps  his  last  sleep,  though   in  memory 

still 

I  sec  his  bent  figure  lean  over  the  sill  ; 
And  gone  is  the  gate- house,  his  cheery  abode, 
While  the  grass  waves  its  green  at  the  bend  in  the 

road. 


BY  THE  STREAM  AT  SUNSET 

I  HAVE  come,  O,  I  have  come 
The  thronged  hot  highways  from, 
And  found  me  a  bowery  nook 

19 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

By  a  tranquil-breasted  brook, 
Where  there  *s  not  a  voice  to  mourn 
That  the  day  is  nigh  out-worn. 

I  can  filch  the  gold  of  rest 

From  the  embers  in  the  west, 

And  can  spin  my  dreams  as  fine 

As  the  wild  cucumber  vine 

With  its  snowy  fluff  of  flower  ; 

I  can  fashion  thews  of  power 

From  the  oak  tree,  rooted  stanch, 

And  my  hope-boats  I  can  launch 

With  the  bubbles  that  drift  and  swirl 

Where  the  brown  sands  shade  to  pearl. 

I  can  make  my  purpose  gleam 

Like  the  bronze  stems  in  mid-stream  ; 

My  fancies  I  can  shape 

Like  the  tendrils  of  the  grape  ; 

I  can  harbor  thoughts  as  fair 

As  the  white  spirae  there, 

That  lifts  not  a  look  of  scorn 

To  its  big  rough  neighbor  thorn. 

'Tis  hence,  O,  hence  I  have  come 
The  thronged  hot  highways  from, 
That  the  healing  power  may  work 
Through  the  lethargy  and  murk 
Of  the  mind,  and  there  inspire 
The  old  chords  of  desire,  — 
The  pure  desire  that  leads 
To  the  goal  of  lofty  deeds. 

20 


THE  MARINER'S  GRAVE 


THE  MARINER'S  GRAVE 

BENEATH  the  grim  old  beacon  tower 
They  made  his  last  straight  bed, 
The  gray  and  grizzled  slope  below, 
And  ocean  wide  outspread. 

There  might  he  see  the  ships  slip  in 

And  out  across  the  bar, 
And  down  the  night  the  warning  light 

Fling  its  recurrent  star. 

There  might  he  hear  the  harping  wind 

Rctune  its  ancient  strain, 
And  that  sublime  musician,  sea, 

Intone  its  joy  and  pain. 

There  might  his  sleep  be  long  and  deep, 
From  time  and  tide  withdrawn  ; 

Above,  the  sea-gull's  silvery  wing 
Until  the  last  red  dawn. 


THE  DORMANT  STRAIN 

SOMETIMES  there  stirs  a  dormant  strain 
Of  woodland  blood  within  my  vein, 
And  scorn  of  custom  and  of  art 
Lays  heavy  hold  upon  my  heart. 


21 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

The  garden,  with  its  ordered  rows, 
To  me  no  line  of  beauty  shows  ; 
I  long  for  nature  unconfined, 
Unmanacled,  as  is  the  wind. 

Then  plunge  I  deep  in  dales  where  rills 
Come  hurrying  downward  from  the  hills, 
Where  briar  and  berry  intertwine, 
And  pungent  odors  breathes  the  pine  ; 
Where  banks  are  velveted  with  moss, 
And  wild-grape  tendrils  climb  and  cross 
From  bough  to  bough,  and  mandrake  fruit 
Is  plenty  by  the  beech  tree's  root. 

You,  in  the  city  hived  and  shut, 

Here  is  the  kernel  of  life's  nut  !  — 

To  feel  the  savage  in  you  stir, 

To  know  yourself  a  wanderer 

In  haunts  where  wilding  things  have  birth, 

To  taste  the  freshness  of  the  earth,  — 

Its  balm,  its  myrrh,  —  for  once  to  scan 

The  virile  primal  joys  of  man. 


THE  BY-PATH 

T  TP  through  the  whispering  grove  it  winds, 
\^_J  And  on  through  woodland  cloisters  fair, 
Where,  hid  in  hollows  deep,  one  finds 
The  shy  and  slender  maiden-hair. 


THE  BY-PATH 

On  this  side  hazel  copses  reach  ; 

On  that,  long  shadowy  aisles  unroll, 
Propt  by  the  granite  of  the  beech 

And  the  white  birch's  marble  bole. 

Hither,  when  spring  was  in  the  bud, 

I  saw  two  laughing  lovers  stray  ; 
June  leaped  within  his  nimble  blood, 

And  in  her  eyes  there  brooded  May. 

To  them  the  world  was  sweet  with  song, 
And  myths  were  care  and  gray  regret  ; 

Tncy  plucked,  the  while  they  strolled  along, 
The  morn-empurpled  violet. 

Once  more  I  saw  the  lovers  pass, 

Grown  tender  and  less  mirthful  now  ; 

The  breeze  sang  "  summer  "  through  the  grass, 
And  ««  summer  "  through  the  full-leaved  bough. 

I  wandered  through  the  wood  again 

When  autumn  spread  her  crimson  spell, 

But  saw  them  not,  for  o'er  the  plain 
Out  pealed  their  silvern  wedding-bell. 

And  after  those  Clysian  days 

No  more  they  trod  the  pleasant  path, 

But  wended  down  life's  wider  ways 
To  gather  love's  full  aftermath. 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

And  yet  whene'er  I  seek  the  place 
I  feel  their  living  presence  there  ; 

Still,  still  abide  her  bloom  and  grace, 
And  lingers  still  his  rapturous  air. 

The  seasons  turn  from  green  to  sere, 
And  petty  cares  and  discords  move, 

But  one  spot  keeps  through  all  the  year 
A  perpetuity  of  love. 


THE  SEXTON 

I  WANDERED  lone  within  a  churchyard  old, 
Amid  the  lichened  tombs,  whereon  were  traced, 
In  fading  characters,  the  names  of  those 
Who  erst  were  busy  upon  earthly  ways. 
The  summer  wind  among  the  sycamores 
Breathed  solemn  requiem.      On  the  gray  church 

walls 

One  spreading  spray  of  ivy  heralded 
The  crimson  sunsets  of  autumnal  eves. 
Across  the  sward,  threading  a  sinuous  way 
Between  the  sunken  mounds,  the  sexton  came 
Slowly,  with  shambling  gait,  his  knees  ashake. 
His  grizzled  beard  hung  like  a  fringe  of  rime 
Upon  his  ashen  cheeks  ;   his  wrinkled  brow 
Was  like  a  parchment  written  on  by  Time. 
Near  me  he  paused,  and,  growing  garrulous 
With  memories  of  past  years,  when  those  around 
Were  animate,  his  creaking  tongue  ran  on. 

24 


THE  VIOLET  BANK 

And  ever  told  he  some  loud  tale  of  mirth, 
And  ever,  with  a  weird,  uncanny  sound, 
His  hollow  laugh  fell  from  his  shrunken  lips. 
So  long  had  he  kept  company  with  Death, 
Brothered  with  speechless  dust,  and  held  for  home 
The  house  of  Silence  and  the  field  of  Sleep, 
He  seemed  "  the  grim  destroyer's  "  caricature,  — 
Death  strayed  abroad  to  prate  with  ghastly  mirth 
Of  those  his  hand  had  clutched.      But  when  he 

passed 
To  where  a  flower  bloomed  o'er  a  vine-wreathed 

grave,  — 

A  tiny  mound,  —  his  quavering  voice  was  hushed. 
Down  a  deep  furrow  coursed  the  sudden  tear  ; 
"My  all!"    he  said.       His   words  were   like  a 

moan 

At  evenfall  in  gray  November  boughs. 
Sad  memories  had  made  him  once  more  man. 


THE  VIOLET  BANK 

ABOVE,  a  hoary  hemlock  flings 
Dense  shade,  and  near,  the  bland  day  long, 
The  river-hasting  brooklet  sings 
In  silvery  undersong. 

The  airs  that  blow  have  pleasant  hints 
Of  mints  and  woody  balsams  pure  ; 

On  bough  and  bole  and  turf  are  tints 
That  change  and  blend  and  lure. 

25 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

And  here,  mosaicked  in  the  moss  — 

Blue  as  deep  lakes  in  high  noon's  glow, 

When  not  a  ripple  breathes  across  — 
The  tender  violets  grow. 

And  here  I  love  to  set  for  Time 
A  snare,  to  stay  his  feet  that  fly  ; 

To  fetter  him  with  bonds  of  rhyme 
As  he  glides  fleetly  by. 

Then  to  my  eager  lips  I  press 

The  fruit  Contentment's  golden  core  ; 
The  whole  world,  free  from  storm  and  stress, 

Is  Arcady  once  more. 


THE  CRICKETS  BY  LAKE  HURON 

ALL  through  the  afternoon,  without  reprieve, 
We  marked  the  moaning  of  the  inland  main, 
And  then  those  cheery  minstrels  of  the  eve 
Resumed  their  jocund  strain. 

They  flung  it  down  the  piny  corridors, 

And  through  the  cedar  arches  clear  and  far  ; 

Wide  Huron  heard  it,  and  her  dusky  shores, 
And  heaven,  star  by  star. 


26 


WILD  PLUM 

And,  like  a  mother's  hush-song  to  her  child, 
It  slowly  softened  as  the  night  grew  deep, 

Until  by  happy  dreams  we  were  beguiled 
Upon  the  breast  of  sleep. 


WILD  PLUM 

OVERHEAD  is  the  hum 
Of  the  wind  in  the  gloom 
Of  the  sentinel  pines  ; 
And  below  the  wild  plum, 

Where  the  slanting  sun  shines, 
Shows  its  snowy  white  bloom, 
Flings  its  subtle  perfume 
On  the  breeze 
To  the  bees. 

How  they  hover  around, 
Tiny  bandits  and  bold, 

Making  thefts  honey-sweet 
With  a  murmurous  sound  ! 

And  the  psyches  they  meet, 
Little  atoms  of  gold, 
Join  the  frolic,  and  hold 
Jubilee 
Round  the  tree. 

Where  is  Mab  ?  where  is  Puck  ? 
Is  that  Ariel  sings 

From  the  crest  of  yon  bough 

'7 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

That  no  mortal  should  pluck  ? 
O  but  list  to  it  now  !  — 
Revellings,  rapturings  ;  — 
Then  a  glimmer  of  wings 
And  away 
Like  a  ray. 

How  the  bloom  and  the  balm 
And  the  bee  and  the  bird, 

In  the  depth  of  the  wood, 
To  the  heart  bring  a  calm, 

To  the  spirit  seem  good, 
More  than  music  or  word  ! 
Every  fibre  is  stirred 
By  the  hum,  — 
And  the  plum  ! 


A  BELL 

HAD  I  the  power 
To  cast  a  bell  that  should  from  some  grand 

tower, 

At  the  first  Christmas  hour, 
Outring, 
And  fling 

A  jubilant  message  wide, 
The  forged  metals  should  be  thus  allied  ;  — 
No  iron  Pride, 


28 


A  BELL 

But  soft  Humility,  and  rich-veined  Hope 

Cleft  from  a  sunny  slope  ; 

And  there  should  be 

White  Charity, 

And  silvery  Love,  that  knows  not  Doubt  nor  Fear, 

To  make  the  peal  more  clear  ; 

And  then  to  firmly  fix  the  fine  alloy, 

There  should  be  Joy  ! 


29 


IN  ITALIA 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  THE  LIRO 

A  DOWN  the  Alpine  vale  our  way  we  wended 
Toward  fair  Italia,  wrapt  in  rosy  haze  ; 
And  ever,  when  we  thought  the  path  had  ended, 
New  vistas  opened  to  our  wondering  gaze. 

Dark  rocks  lay  strewn  by  ancient  avalanches 
Where  chestnuts  clustered  in  a  burry  bovver, 

And  often,  o'er  the  autumn-ambered  branches, 
A  slender  campanile  thrust  its  tower. 

The  eyes  we  looked  into  were  deep  and  dusky, 
Alive  with  laughter,  yet  with  hints  of  pain  ; 

The  onward-luring  air  was  warm  and  musky, 
Blown  over  Como  from  the  Lombard  plain. 

And  still  alert  for  beauties  unbeholden, 

Rounding  a  rock-ledge  rearing  bare  and  steep, 

We  saw,  where  stood  a  crumbling  archway  olden, 
An  aged  shepherd  followed  by  his  sheep. 

His    cloak     hung    crosswise     from    his    stooping 
shoulder, 

While  in  his  hand  he  held  a  sturdy  crook  ; 
His  flock  fast  crowded  over  mound  and  bowlder, 

Nor  did  he  guide  them  by  a  word  or  look. 

And  through  the  arch  in  happy-hearted  frolic 
We  watched  them  press  behind  him  one  by  one, 


33 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

Until  our  new  Virgilian  bucolic 

Vanished  as  swiftly  as  the  vanished  sun. 

Then  violet  shades  crept  down  the  winding  valley 
And  hid  the  path  our  shepherd  strayed  along  ; 

We  heard  the  peasants,  on  their  homeward  rally, 
Stirring  the  silence  with  a  vintage  song. 

Erelong  another  roadway  did  we  follow 
Far  into  dreamland  ;  there  did  we  behold 

The  aged  one,  in  some  leaf-sheltered  hollow, 
Leading  his  flock  benignly  to  the  fold. 


MEMORIES  OF  COMO 

TRIUMPHANT  Autumn  sweeps  from  shore 
to  shore, 

And  works  swift  magic  with  her  wand  of  fire  ; 
She  fills  the  hollows  of  the  hills  once  more 
With  amethyst,  and  like  a  golden  lyre 
The  woodlands  gleam,  and  quiver  and  suspire. 

I  listen,  and  the  low  harmonic  sound 

Quickens  the  happy  past  within  my  brain  ; 

My  spirit  crosses  with  an  ardent  bound 
The  severing  ocean,  and  I  float  again 
On  Como's  tranquil  breast  that  bears  no  stain. 

Now  buoyantly  from  vineyard-terraced  heights 
Arc  borne  the  soft  and  artless  vintage  airs ; 
34 


NUOVA  LUNA 

Blent  odors  lend  their  attar-sweet  delights, 
And  by  the  lake's  marge,  on  the  water-stairs, 
I  see  the  laughing  lovers  stand  in  pairs. 

I  view  Vtrenna's  milky-white  cascade, 

And  bright  Bcllaggio  nestling  'neath  a  crown 

Of  laurel-woven,  ilex-darkened  shade  ; 

I  mark  o'er  Lenno,  looking  grandly  down, 
The  pilgrim-haunted  church  of  old  renown. 

Aye  !  and  the  mountains  that  uplift  the  soul 
Above  the  gross  and  earthly  I  behold  ; 

And  ail  the  mighty  shapes  that  mass  and  roll 
Through  evanescent  cloudland  uncontrolled, 
And  sunset  skies  miraculous  with  gold. 

Dear  to  the  heart  are  memories  like  these 
Of  beauties  seen  upon  some  vanished  day, 

That,  like  the  carven  figures  of  a  frieze 

In  marble  wrought,  although  the  years  decay, 
From  fair  perfection  do  not  fade  away. 


NUOVA  LUNA 

"  Bltia  mf  tbi  trumfil  in  tkt  nrw  mttn."  — PSALMS. 

THE  Wind  has  fashioned  him  a  harp  to  sound, 
Of  cypress  boughs,  attuned  to  melody  ; 
The  sister  wavelets  wake  the  shores  around 
With  the  sweet  echo  of  their  minstrelsy  ; 
Then  give  the  lyre  to  me. 

35 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

For  yonder,  o'er  the  mountains  clearly  shining, 
Companioned  by  one  star, 
And  riven  by  one  violet  cloud-bar, 
The  new  moon  silvers  in  pale  symmetry, 

And  song  shall  greet  her  ere  her  dim  declining. 

Like  spectral  opals  in  the  emerald  gloom, 

The  frequent  lights  at  far  Tremezzo  glow, 
While  titanesque  the  black  peak-summits  loom 
Along  the  sky-line  in  a  rugged  row. 
The  waves  are  strange  below, 
Wan,  wavering  beams  on  tiny  ripples  glinting, 
Save  where  dense  shadows  fall 
Sheer  from  still  wood  or  overtopping  wall  ; 
There  has  begun  night's  unrecorded  show 
That  takes  no  glamour  from  the  new  moon's  tint 
ing. 

Soon  will  the  mild  and  crescent-curving  horn, 

A  sparkling  arc  in  darkling  depths  of  air, 
Swell  to  a  golden  globe,  and  then,  at  morn, 
Gleam  like  a  ghost,  in  impotent  despair 
That  once  her  face  was  fair. 
So  rise,  my  song,  before  such  change  come  o'er 

her! 

Youth  is  the  meetest  time 
For     laughter,     love,    and     ear-entrancing 

rhyme  ; 
Still  youth's  smooth  brow  doth  beauty's  garland 

wear, 
The  moon  is  young,  and  we  would  fain  adore  her. 

36 


THE  PHANTOM  GONDOLIER 

Elsewhere  our  choric  ecstasy  were  less, 

For  inspiration  would  not  lift  our  strain, 
But  here  we  grasp  such  perfect  loveliness 

The  full  flood  tide  of  bliss  is  almost  pain 

To  the  enthralled  brain, 
And  fancy  spurns  the  earth  for  loftier  soaring. 
'Tis  here,  and  only  here, 
Yon  cold  and  uninhabitable  sphere 

Warms  the  dull  blood  until  it  leaps  amain, 
And  spurs  the  heart  to  passion's  true  outpouring. 

Strive  not  to  solve  the  riddle,  —  wherefore,  why, 

The  moonlight  quickens  here  diviner  things 
Than  under  other  arches  of  wide  sky, 

Dulled  with  the  dusk's  sepulchral  shadowings  ! 

Enough  if  it  but  brings 
The  rare  uplifting,  the  supreme  elation  ; 
O'er  Crocione's  crest, 
Its  mirrored  twin  on  Como's  tranquil  breast, 

The  new  moon  like  an  argent  censer  swings, 
And  song  upsoars  to  voice  our  adoration. 


THE  PHANTOM  GONDOLIER 

IN  Venice  of  the  Doge's  times, 
When  Carnival  was  constant  king, 
When  gallant  nobles  coupled  rhymes 
And  did  their  own  gay  minstrcling, 


37 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

There  lived  a  gondolier  whose  grace 
Was  like  a  charm  we  dream  to  see 

In  some  remote,  ethereal  place, 
In  some  celestial  Italy. 

His  oar  had  life  ;  it  swayed,  it  swept ; 

It  dipped  as  dips  the  bird  in  air. 
Upon  his  olive  face  there  slept 

A  sunny  look  that  made  it  fair. 
And  what  a  wondrous  voice  he  had  ! 

When  on  the  air  its  notes  were  borne, 
The  happy  heard  and  grew  more  glad, 

And  Sorrow's  self  forgot  to  mourn. 

Rare  bliss  was  his  one  little  hour  ; 

A  lovely  princess  deigned  to  throw 
A  rosebud  from  her  latticed  bower 

At  twilight  as  he  passed  below. 
And  with  the  flower  she  flashed  a  smile 

That  was  to  him  a  ray  of  light 
Swift  shot  from  some  angelic  isle 

Adown  the  drowning  dusk  of  night. 

Impassioned  songs  to  her  he  sung 

When  starry  splendors  filled  the  sky, 
Till  Scandal  stirred  its  venom  tongue, 

And  fired  a  lover's  jealousy. 
A  ruthless  arbiter  of  fate, 

The  vengeful  noble  lingered  near, 
And  at  the  palace  postern  gate 

He  slew  the  daring  gondolier. 
38 


A  VENETIAN  SUNSET 

And  since  that  midnight  hour  of  dread, 

In  lawless  mediaeval  days, 
A  spectral  gondola  has  sped 

Adown  the  winding  water-ways  ; 
A  graceful  phantom  plies  the  oar, 

And  hurries  on  as  if  in  fear  ; 
A  bodeful  terror  runs  before 

Where  hastes  the  ghostly  gondolier. 

Beheld  but  for  a  fleeting  breath, 

Then  suddenly  the  wraith  is  gone 
With  one  swift  shudder,  as  when  death 

Steals  in  across  the  chill  of  dawn. 
Who  sees  this  phantom  form  may  know 

That  murder  walks  again  abroad, 
And  that  another  face  of  woe 

Is  staring  dumbly  up  to  God. 


A  VENETIAN  SUNSET 

ON  the  bright  bosom  of  the  broad  lagoon 
Rocked  by  the  tide  we  lay, 
And  watched  the  fading  of  the  afternoon 
In  golden  calm  away. 

The  water  caught  the  fair  faint  hues  of  rose, 

Then  flamed  to  ruby  fire 
That  touched  and  lingered  on  the  marble  snows 

Of  wall  and  dome  and  spire. 


39 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

A  graceful  bark,  with  saffron  sails  outflung, 

Swept  toward  the  ancient  mart, 
And  poised  a  moment  like  a  bird,  and  hung 

Full  in  the  sunset* s  heart. 

A  dull  gun  boomed,  and,  as  the  echo  ceased, 

O'er  the  low  dunes  afar, 
Lambent  and  large  from  out  the  darkened  east, 

Leaped  night's  first  star. 


ON  A  COPY  OF  THEOCRITUS 

{Venice,  1493) 

THEOCRITUS,  we  love  thy  song, 
Where  thyme  is  sweet  and  meads  are  sunny  ; 
Where  shepherd  swains  and  maidens  throng, 
And  bees  Hyblean  hoard  their  honey. 

Since  ancient  Syracusan  days 

It  year  by  year  has  grown  the  sweeter  ; 
For  year  by  year  life's  opening  ways 

Run  more  in  prose  and  less  in  meter. 

And  than  this  quarto,  vellum-clad, 
You  could  not  wish  a  rarer  setting  ; 

Beholding,  you  must  still  be  glad, 
If  you  behold  without  forgetting. 


40 


ON  A  COPY  OF  THEOCRITUS 

Manutius  was  the  Printer's  name  — 
(A  publisher  was  then  unheard  of!) 

A  fellow  of  some  worthy  fame, 
If  history  we  take  the  word  of. 

Think  when  its  pages  first  were  cut, 
And  eager  eyes  above  them  hovered, 

Our  proudest  dwelling  was  a  hut  — 
America  was  just  discovered  ! 

Then  Venice  was  indeed  a  queen, 

And  taught  the  tawny  Turk  to  fear  her  ; 

Now  has  she  lost  her  royal  mien, 

And  yet  we  could  not  hold  her  dearer. 

Betwixt  these  covers  there  is  bound 
A  charm  that  needeth  no  completion  ; 

A  golden  atmosphere  is  found 
At  once  Sicilian  and  Venetian. 

So,  while  our  plausive  song  we  raise, 

And  hail  the  bard  whose  name  is  famous, 

Let  us  for  once  divide  the  bays, 
And  to  the  Printer  cry:  La u damus ! 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 


THE  FALLING  OF  THE  BURRS 

WHEN  russet-robed  Autumn  reigns  around, 
A  tender  chord  within  my  memory  stirs, 
Hearing  soft  music  on  the  leaf-strewn  ground, 
The  rhythmic  falling  of  the  chestnut  burrs. 

To  me  it  means  blue-skied,  unfettered  hours 
On  Tuscan  slopes  above  the  figs  and  vines  ; 

Below,  red  roofs  and  dazzling  domes  and  towers, 
Beyond,  in  violet  haze,  the  Apennines. 

The  cypresses  in  solemn  conclave  stand, 
Mourning  the  past  with  weird  monotony  ; 

A  golden  serpent,  severing  the  land, 

Writhes  Arno  by  toward  Pisa  and  the  sea. 

The  lizards  bask,  as  indolent  as  I, 

In  spaces  where  the  unshattered  sunbeams  fall  ; 
A  tardy  vintager  goes  stumbling  by, 

Lilting  a  ditty,  gaily  bacchanal. 

Such  is  the  idyl  —  peaceful,  dreamful,  fair  — 
Its  only  sober  spot  the  somber  firs, 

Conjured  by  Autumn  from  the  drowsy  air 

With  the  down-dropping  of  the  chestnut  burrs. 


A  FLORENTINE  GARDEN 


A  FLORENTINE  GARDEN 

HOW  many  summer  suns  have  shone 
Upon  this  gem  of  garden  closes, 
With  all  its  jars  of  celadon, 

And  til  its  wealth  of  Tuscan  roses, 
On  tablet  or  on  page  no  hand 

With  cunning  letters  has  recorded  ; 
Yet  he  who  seeks  this  dreamy  land 
Will  find  his  wanderings  rewarded. 

Here  citrons  lean  above  the  wall, 

And  figs  grow  purple  in  September, 
Here  luscious-ripe  the  red  plums  fall  — 

Each  bursting  globe  a  ruddy  ember ; 
And  here,  inscribed  upon  a  scat, 

With  lichens  gray, nicked, stained, and  stony, 
Twined  in  a  love-knot,  will  he  meet 

A  "  Paula  "  and  a  "  Giorgionc." 

Who  were  they  ?     That  we  may  not  know  : 

Enough  that  'neath  the  empyrean 
They  lived  and  loved,  long,  long  ago, 

In  days  of  splendor  Medicean. 
No  doubt  they  saw  the  hours  creep  round 

The  silver  disc  of  yonder  dial, 
And  'ncath  the  pleached  laurels  found 

A  shelter  safe  from  all  espial. 


43 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

In  still  word-pauses,  fondly  sweet  — 

A  silence  known  to  fools  and  sages  — 
Perchance  he  graved  upon  the  seat 

Their  names,  that  have  defied  the  ages  ; 
Traced  with  his  dagger,  jewel-bright, 

The  characters  we  yet  discover  ; 
Then  pledged  himself  her  valiant  knight, 

And  swore  himself  her  faithful  lover. 

Perchance  upon  his  speech  she  hung 

With  rapt  regard,  the  radiant  creature, 
And  answered  with  impassioned  tongue, 

Love  limned  on  every  flawless  feature  ! 
Mayhap  they  planned  the  future  out, 

As  young  troth-plighted  people  will  do  ; 
Of  course  he  satisfied  each  doubt, 

As  castle-building  suitors  still  do. 

And  were  they  wed  with  smiles  and  tears, 

Here  where  all  mortals  toil  and  grope  so  ? 
And  did  they  have  full  meed  of  years, 

And  pass  to  peaceful  graves  ?   We  hope  so  ! 
And  if,  in  some  celestial  sphere, 

Unto  their  angel  eyes  should  this  come, 
May  they  on  two  now  loving  here 

Breathe  down  a  tender  "  Pax  vobiscum  !  " 


44 


THE  BELLS  OF  FOSSOMBRONE 


THE  BELLS  OF  FOSSOMBRONE 

UP  the  highlands,  steep  and  stony, 
To  the  valley-wending  throng, 
Rang  the  bells  of  Fossombronc 
Silvery  eve  and  matin  song. 

Rang  they  proud  and  rang  they  peerless, 
Rang  they  with  ecstatic  thrill ; 

And  their  music  cheered  the  cheerless, 
Aye  !  —  't  is  said  it  healed  the  ill. 

Then  the  Lord  of  Fano  vaunted, 
"  Great  arc  we,  and  shall  the  dells 

By  rough  mountain  toilers  haunted 

With  their  chimes  outpeal  our  bells  ?  " 

So  upon  a  morning  moany, 

When  the  heavens  were  a-lower, 

Stormed  they  into  Fossombrone, 
Haled  the  bells  from  out  the  tower. 

•  When  the  Easter  dawns,"  they  boasted, 

"  We  will  ring  our  triumph  wide!  " 
And  that  night  they  blithely  toasted 
Fano's  power  and  Fano's  pride. 

Pissed  the  year's  young  pilgrim  daughters  - 
Days  both  jubilant  and  lorn  — 


45 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

Till  o'er  Adria's  waste  of  waters, 
Rose-like,  flowered  the  Easter  morn. 

While  the  harbor  shimmered  steely, 
And  the  bloom  of  morning  grew, 

Toward  the  stately  campanile 
Strode  the  ringers,  two  by  two. 

Soared  a  shout  of  acclamation 
Up  as  if  some  Titan  spoke, 

And  with  murmurous  exultation 
Waited  each  the  triumph  stroke. 

Gnarled  muscles  swelled  with  tension 
As  the  ringers  strained  and  bowed  ; 

Then  a  wave  of  apprehension 
Swept  upon  the  gathered  crowd  ; 

For  they  saw  the  bells  wide-swinging, 
Mouths  agape  as  though  to  peal, 

Yet  they  heard  no  sound  down-ringing 
From  the  yawning  throats  of  steel. 

Cried  one  loudly,  "  We  should  rue  us 
For  the  tale  this  Easter  tells  ! 

Hath  not  Jesus  spoken  to  us 
In  the  silence  of  these  bells  ? 

"  Back  with  them  to  Fossombrone  !  " 
Swiftly  back  their  prize  they  bore, 


46 


THE  BELLS  OF  FOSSOMBRONE 

And  beneath  the  highlands  stony 

Found  the  bells  their  voice  once  more. 

And  the  men  of  Fano,  chided 

By  the  melody  renewed, 
Clasped  the  hands  of  those  derided, 

Buried  deep  the  olden  feud. 

Seaward  from  the  mountain  valley, 
Heralding  the  happier  times, 

Rang  through  grove  and  olive  alley 
Fossombronc's  peerless  chimes. 


47 


EX  ORIENTE 


AL  MAMOUN 

BAGDAD'S  palms  looked  tall  in  the  tide 
Of  Tigris,  tawny  and  swift  and  wide  ; 
Bagdad's  minarets  gleamed  and  glowed 
In  the  sun  that  burned  in  its  blue  abode  ; 
Bagdad's  life  made  rumble  and  jar 
In  booth  and  highway  and  bright  bazaar  ; 
Bagdad's  monarch  lolled  in  the  dusk 
Of  the  citron  shade,  'mid  the  scent  of  musk. 
And  around  him  sat  the  makers  of  rhyme, 
Come  from  many  a  distant  clime  ; 
For  song  by  him  was  held  as  a  boon, 

Al  Mamoun, 
The  son  of  the  great  Haroun. 

From  lands  of  cold  and  lands  of  the  sun 

He  hearkened  the  poets,  one  by  one, 

Giving  a  portion  of  praise  to  each, 

And  a  guerdon  of  gold  with  his  pearls  of  speech  ; 

Spreading  a  luscious  banquet  there 

In  the  languid,  richly-perfumed  air  ; 

Plucking  from  luxury's  laden  stem 

The  royal  wealth  of  its  fruit  for  them  ; 

Bidding  the  soul  of  the  grape  be  brought 

To  kindle  the  bosom  to  happy  thought ; 

Speeding  the  amber  afternoon, 

Al  Mamoun, 
The  son  of  the  great  Haroun. 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

And  on  through  the  starlit  purple  hours 
The  sound  of  song  was  heard  in  the  bowers; 
The  zither  and  lute  would  blend  and  blur 
And  tangle  with  notes  of  the  dulcimer ; 
And  above  and  over  and  through  it  all 
Would  soar  and  swell,  or  would  fail  and  fall 
With  the  dreamful  lull  of  the  dying  word, 
An  ecstasy  voiced  from  the  throat  of  a  bird. 
So,  leashed  by  the  love  of  song,  would  he, 
Praising  the  poets  and  poesy, 
Linger  till  night  had  neared  its  noon, 

Al  Mamoun, 
The  son  of  the  great  Haroun. 

With  crumbling  mosque  and  with  toppling  tomb 
Have  vanished  Bagdad's  beauty  and  bloom, 
While  a  far,  faint  breath  on  the  lips  of  fame 
Is  all  we  know  of  the  monarch's  name. 
But  rather  to  him  than  his  mightier  sire 
O'er  gulfs  of  time  shall  the  song  aspire  ; 
For  song  to  the  lover  of  song  is  due, 
Though  centuries  darken  with  rust,  and  strew 
With  mosses,  the  marble  above  his  head. 
And  so,  in  the  land  of  the  happy  dead, 
May  song  still  stir  with  its  blissful  boon 

Al  Mamoun, 
The  son  of  the  great  Haroun. 


DAWN  IN  THE  DESERT 


DAWN  IN  THE  DESERT 

WHEN  the  first  opal  presage  of  the  morn 
Quickened  ihc  east,  the  good  Mcrwan  arose. 
And  by  his  open  tent  door  knelt  and  prayed. 

Now  in  that  pilgrim  caravan  was  one 

Whose  heart  was  heavy  with  dumb  doubts,  whose 

eyes 

Drew  little  balm  from  slumber.      Up  and  down 
Night  long  he  paced  the  avenues  of  sand 
'Twixt  tent  and  tent,  and  heard  the  jackals  snarl, 
The  camels  moan  for  water.      This  one  came 
On  Merwan  praying,  and  to  him  outcried  — 
(The  tortured  spirit  bursting  its  scaled  fount 
As  doth  the  brook  on  Damavend  in  spring), 
"  How  knowest  thou  that  any  Allah  is  ?  " 
Swift  from  the  sand  did  Merwan  lift  his  face, 
Flung  toward  the  cast  an  arm  of  knotted  bronze, 
And  said,  as  upward  shot  a  shaft  of  gold, 
"  Dost  need  a  torch  to  show  to  tbec  the  dawn  f  " 
Then  prayed  again. 

When  on  the  desert's  rim 
In  sudden,  awful  splendor  stood  the  sun, 
Through  all  that  caravan  there  was  no  knee 
But  bowed  to  Allah. 


53 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 


KAROON,  THE  PILGRIM 

NOON  in  Aleppo.      For  a  little  space 
The  babel  died  within  the  market-place, 
And  down  the  long  bazaar  the  tread  of  feet 
Knew  soft  caesuras  in  its  rhythmic  beat. 
Above  mosaicked  courts  and  house  roofs  dun 
Kept  fiery  sovereignty  the  Syrian  sun  ; 
Without  the  town,  where  brown   the  hill  line* 

rose, 

The  breeze  scarce  stirred  the  green  pistachios, 
And  in  the  river  garden  slumbering 
Were  fount  and  bird  and  silvern  zither  string. 

Karoon,  the  pilgrim,  dozing  by  the  door 
Of  Khan  Wezir  that  threw  cool  shadow  o'er 
The  nigh  deserted  highway,  heard  the  din 
Of  hot  Levantines  quarreling  within, 
Roused,  brushed  the  swarming  flies,  and  set  to  lip 
A  few  poor  dates  from  out  his  scanty  scrip, 
Then  grasped  his  staff  and  sought  the  distant  star 
Of  light  that  glimmered  through  the  dim  bazaar. 
The  nets  that  hung  o'er  many  an  entrance  there 
Proclaimed  the  midday  hour  of  rest  and  prayer  ; 
But  barter  was  not  tongue-tied  while  the  Greek 
Or  Syrian  Christian  of  his  wares  could  speak. 
Though  ne'er  in  worldly  ways  had  Karoon  thrived, 
Thought's  hoarded  honey  in  his  brain  was  hived  ; 


54 


KAROON,  THE  PILGRIM 

As  rtdiant  roses  spring  from  darksome  mold, 
Af  seeming  barren  sands  yield  grains  of  gold, 
As  priceless  pearls  drop  from  the  ragged  shell, 
From  Karoon's  lips  a  wealth  of  wisdom  fell. 
Past  tiny  stalls  where  gums  and  spices  blent 
To  cloy  the  air  with  fumes  of  heavy  scent, 
Past  wide  divans,  where,  'mid  his  curios, 
The  tarbooshed  Moslem  stole  a  brief  repose, 
Past  slinking  curs  that  scavengcred  the  street, 
Went  Karoon,  musing,  through  the  noontide  heat. 
Raising  his  eyes,  as  branched  the  roofed  way, 
He  srw  one  brooding  o'er  a  rare  display 
Of  blue  Bokharas,  yellow  Daghestans, 
The  choicest  store  of  many  caravans ; 
Hullal,  the  rich,  men  called  him.     Karoon  stayed 
His  wandering  steps,  and  man  and  wealth  surveyed. 
Deeply  the  merchant's  face,  despite  his  hoard, 
With  discomentment's  arabesques  was  scored. 
He  met  the  pilgrim's  eye  with  gaze  unsure, 
But  cried  to  him,  "  What  wouldst  thou,  O  most 

poor?" 

••  Hold  !  "  answered  Karoon  with  unbended  brow, 
"  Call  him  not  poor  who  richer  is  than  thou." 
••  Aha  ! "  laughed  Hullal,  and  "aha  !  "  again, 
"  What  monstrous  fantasy  beclouds  thy  brain  ?" 
Calmly  stood  Karoon  till  the  laughter  died, 
Then  with  the  prophet  tongue  of  truth  replied, 
••  No  empty  mirage  has  my  brain  begot ; 
Mint  is  contentment,  and  tbott  bait  it  not." 


55 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

Lightly  he  turned,  and  faded  in  the  maze 

Now  thronged  with  men  from  Allah's  house  of 

praise, 

While  Hullal,  sitting  silent  and  apart, 
Brooded  and  brooded  with  a  heavy  heart. 


HASSAN'S  TOMB 

IN  Hassan's  heart  there  burned  a  lust  for  gold  ; 
And  growing  overbold 
With  that  consuming  fire 
That  swept  his  soul  as  desert  winds  a  lyre, 
And  wakened  hot  vibrations,  in  the  cold 
And  silence-sealed  hours, 
When  in  the  sky  the  stars  like  golden  flowers 
Broke    bud   and    bloomed,  with  stealthy  foot  he 

crept, 

While  all  the  palace  slept, 
To  that  vast  vault,  the  kingdom's  treasury, 
Whereof,  as  trusted  prince,  he  bore  the  key. 

Then  shone  a  Presence  in  a  dream,  and  spoke  ; 
And  the  Sultan  awoke, 
And  girt  himself,  as  though 
He  would  go  forth  to  battle  with  the  foe. 
And  sandalled  softly,  so  no  footfall  broke 
Upon  the  midnight  chill, 

Through  corridors  and  chambers  dim  and  still 
He  glided  like  a  spirit,  till  he  came 
Where,  false  to  faith  and  fame, 
56 


THE  ROSE  OF  FAYUM 

Stood  Hassan,  gloating  with  a  greedy  smile 
O'er  wealth  that  lay  in  many  a  gleaming  pile. 

The  recreant  stooped,  with  evil  joy  elate, 

When,  like  avenging  fate, 

With  eyes  where  fiery  scorn 

And  lightnings  of  reproach  alike  were  born, 

The  Sultan  towered  without  the  treasure  gate. 

Before  the  prince  could  stir, 

Closed  with  a  clang  the  massive  barrier  ; 

And,  ere  availing  hand  was  on  it  laid, 

Or  plea  for  pardon  made, 

The  tempter  key  that  oped  the  door  of  doom 

Had  turned  to  bar  the  door  of  Hassan's  tomb. 


THE  ROSE  OF  FAYUM 

COULD  I  pluck  from  the  gardens  of  old 
The  fairest  of  rlowers  to  behold, 
And  fashion  a  wreath  for  the  shrine 
Of  the  Muses,  —  the  deathless,  divine,  — 
A  garland  I  'd  weave  from  the  bloom 
Of  the  redolent  rose  of  Fay  Cm. 

Still  the  hills  with  their  sun-smitten  crest 
Tower  barren  and  bold  to  the  west, 
Still  slumbers  the  Lake  of  the  Horns 
'Ncath  the  glory  of  luminous  morns  ; 
Still  is  attarcd  the  glow  and  the  gloom 
By  the  redolent  rose  of  Fayum. 

57 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

Arsinoe's  temples  are  prone, 
And  scarce  is  there  stone  above  stone 
Of  the  palace  whose  grandeur  and  girth 
Was  one  of  the  wonders  of  earth  ; 
But  in  triumph  o'er  time  and  the  tomb 
Springs  the  redolent  rose  of  Fayum. 

The  rose  of  to-day  is  a  shoot, 
Like  the  song,  of  a  glorious  root. 
Side  by  side,  till  the  ages  shall  close, 
Go  the  love  of  the  lute  and  the  rose  ; 
And  my  song  I  enlink  with  the  bloom 
Of  the  redolent  rose  of  Fayum. 


THE  DERVISH'S  PRAYER 

THE  tyrant  Yusef,  crime  and  passion  stained, 
Upon     the     throne     of    gracious      Haroun 
reigned. 

Day  after  day,  through  busy  Bagdad  ran 
Dark  rumor  ripples,  —  how  this  ruthless  man 
Goaded  invention,  so  that  he  might  see, 
With  every  sunrise,  some  new  agony. 
Fear  brooded  o'er  the  city  ;  then  there  came 
Adown  the  breeze  the  murmur  of  a  name, 
And  smiles  again  lit  lip  and  eye,  as  though 
The  sun  had  pierced  the  midnight  clouds  of  woe. 
The  blessed  dervish,  he  whose  feet  had  traced 
The  path  to  Mecca  o'er  the  weary  waste 

58 


AT  THE  FUNERAL  OF  ABDALLAH 

Devout  each  year  for  years  a  rounded  score, 
Wts  seen  to  pass  along  the  streets  once  more. 
••  His  prayers  will  save,"  the  happy  people  cried, 
••  For  ear  to  him  hath  Allah  ne'er  denied." 

Scarce  had  the  echo  of  their  triumph  slept, 
When  on  their  hope  base  Yuscf 's  minions  swept, 
And  bore  him  swift  to  be  the  tyrant's  sport 
Where  high  he  sat,  amid  his  cringing  court. 
•'Slave,"  said  the  monarch,  with  a  brutal  stare, 
"  Lift  me  to  Allah  straight  a  goodly  prayer, 
Since  it  is  noised  through  Bagdad  broad  that  he 
Will  grant  whatever  may  be  asked  by  thee." 

Thrice  bowed  the  dervish  Mecca-ward,  the  while 
Around  the  throng  ran  changing  sneer  and  smile  ; 
Then  rang  his  voice,  as  piercing  as  a  fife 
Above  the  clangorous  din  of  battle  strife, 
"I pray  tbct,  Allah,  take  tbou  fluff's  lift!" 

A  form  fell  forward,  writhing  on  the  stone  ; 
No  more  a  tyrant  ruled  on  Haroun's  throne. 


AT  THE  FUNERAL  OF  ABDALLAH 

AT  the  funeral  of  Abdallah 
There  were  master  mourners  ten, 
And  they  groaned  and  cried  "  Inshallah," 
And  they  groaned  and  cried  again. 


59 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

They  beat  their  palms  with  wailing 

Ere  ever  the  round  moon  rose, 
And  loud,  when  her  light  was  paling, 

Did  the  house-tops  hear  their  woes. 
As  they  swayed,  about  their  faces 

Their  locks  were  tossed  and  blown, 
And  the  wide  night's  windy  spaces 

Made  answer,  moan  for  moan. 

O,  the  sounds  that  soared  to  Allah 
At  the  funeral  of  Abdallab  ! 

And  not  till  the  East  gave  token 

Of  the  bursting  flower  of  dawn, 
Was  the  lamentation  broken 

By  the  mourners  weak  and  wan. 
Yet  still  did  the  sob  of  sorrow 

From  the  attared  bower  arise, 
And  the  lorn  day  seemed  to  borrow 

From  the  night  its  brood  of  sighs. 
Then  the  spiced  feast  was  eaten, 

And  the  solemn  word  was  said, 
And  the  doleful  drum  was  beaten 

For  the  journey  of  the  dead. 

O,  the  sounds  that  deafened  Allah 
At  the  funeral  of  Abdallab  ! 


60 


THE  VENGEANCE  OF  KAFUR 


THE  VENGEANCE  OF  KAFUR 

FROM  fair  Damascus,  as  the  day  grew  lite, 
Passed  Kafur  homeward  through  St.  Thomas' 
gate 

Betwixt  the  pleasure-gardens  where  he  heard 
Vic  with  the  lute  the  twilight-wakened  bird. 
But  song  touched  not  his  heavy  heart,  nor  yet 
The  lovely  lines  of  gold  and  violet, 
A  guerdon  left  by  the  departing  sun 
To  grace  the  brow  of  Anti-Lebanon. 
Upon  his  soul  a  crushing  burden  weighed, 
And  to  his  eyes  the  swiftly-gathering  shade 
Seemed  but  the  presage  of  his  doom  to  be,  — 
Death,  and  the  triumph  of  his  enemy. 

"  One  slain  by  tlander"  cried  he,  with  a  laugh, 
•«  Thus  should  the  poets  frame  my  epitaph, 
Above  whose  mouldering  dust  it  will  be  said, 
«  Blessed  be  Allah  that  the  hound  is  dead  !  '  " 
Outrang  a  rhythmic  revel  as  he  spake 
From  joyous  bulbuls  in  the  poplar  brake, 
Hailing  the  night's  first  blossom  in  the  sky. 
And  now,  with  failing  foot,  he  drew  anigh 
The  orchard-garden  where  his  home  was  hid 
Pomegranate  shade  and  jasmine  bloom  amid. 

Despair  mocked  at  him  from  the  latticed  gate 
Where  Love  and  Happiness  had  lain  in  wait 

61 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

With  tender  greetings,  and  the  lights  within 
Gleamed  on  the  grave  of  Bliss  that  once  had  been. 
Fair  Hope,  who  daily  poured  into  his  ear 
Her  rainbow  promises,  gave  way  to  Fear, 
Who  smote  him  blindly,  leaving  him  to  moan, 
With  bitter  tears,  before  the  gateway  prone. 

Soft  seemed  the  wind  in  sympathy  to  grieve, 

When  lo  !   a  sudden  hand  touched  Kafur's  sleeve, 

And  then  a  voice  cried,  echoing  his  name, 

"  Behold  the  proofs  to  put  thy  foe  to  shame  !  " 

Upsprang  the  prostrate  man,  and  while  he  stood 

Gripping  the  proffered  scrip  in  marvelhood, 

He  who   had    brought  deliverance   slipped    from 

sight ; 
Thus  Joy  made  instant  day  of  Kafur's  night. 

"Allah  is  just,"  he  said.    .    .    .    Then  burning  ire 
With  vengeance  visions  filled  his  brain  like  fire  ; 
And  to  his  bosom,  anguish-torn  but  late, 
Delirious  with  delight  he  hugged  his  hate. 
"Revenge!"   cried   he;   "why  wait   until    the 

morn  ? 

This  night  mine  enemy  shall  know  my  scorn." 
The  stars  looked  down  in  wonder  overhead, 
As  backward  Kafur  toward  Damascus  sped. 

The  wind,  that  erst  had  joined  him  in  his  grief, 
Now  whispered  strangely  to  the  walnut  leaf; 
Into  the  bird's  song  pleading  notes  had  crept, 
The  happy  fountains  in  the  gardens  wept, 
62 


THE  VENGEANCE  OF  KAFUR 

And  e'en  the  river,  with  its  restless  roll, 

Seemed  calling  "  Pity  "  unto  Kafur 's  soul. 

"  Allah,"  he  cried,  "  O  chasten  thou  my  heart  ; 

Move  me  to  mercy,  and  a  nobler  part  !  " 

Slow  strode  he  on,  the  while  a  new-born  grace 

Softened  the  rigid  outlines  of  his  face, 

Nor  paused  he  till  he  struck,  as  ne'er  before, 

A  ringing  summons  on  his  foeman's  door. 

His  mantle  half  across  his  features  thrown, 
He  won  the  spacious  inner  court  unknown, 
Where,  on  a  deep  divan,  lay  stretched  his  foe, 
Sipping  his  sherbet  cool  with  Hcrmon  snow  ; 
Who,  when  he  looked  on  Kafur,  hurled  his  hate 
Upon  him,  wrathful  and  infuriate, 
Bidding  him  swift  begone,  and  think  to  feel 
A  judge's  sentence  and  a  jailer's  steel. 

"  Hark  ye  ! "  cried  Kafur,  at  this  burst  of  rage 

Holding  aloft  a  rolled  parchment  page  ; 

•'  Prayers  and  not  threats  were  more  to  thy  behoof; 

Thine  is  the  danger,  sec  !    I  hold  the  proof. 

Should  I  seek  out  the  Caliph  in  his  bower 

To-morrow  when  the  mid-muezzin  hour 

Has  passed,  and  lay  before  his  eyes  thi«  scrip, 

Silence  would  seal  forcvermorc  thy  lip. 

Aye  !  quail  and  cringe  and  crook  the  supple  knee, 

And  beg  thy  life  of  me,  thine  enemy, 

Whom  thou,  a  moment  since,  didst  doom  to  death. 

I  will  not  breathe  suspicion's  lightest  breath 

63 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

Against  thy  vaunted  fame  :   and  even  though 

Before  all  men  thou  'st  sworn  thyself  my  foe. 

And  pledged  thyself  wrongly  to  wreak  on  me 

Thy  utmost  power  of  mortal  injury, 

In  spite  of  this,  should  I  be  first  to  die 

And  win  the  bowers  of  the  blest  on  high, 

Beside  the  golden  gate  of  paradise 

Thee  will  I  wait  with  ever-watchful  eyes, 

Ready  to  plead  forgiveness  for  thy  sin, 

If  thou  shouldst  come,  and  shouldst  not  enter  in. 

Should   Allah    hear  my   plea,    how   sweet  !    how 

sweet  ! 
For  then  would  Kafur's  vengeance  be  complete." 


THE  ARAB'S  HORSE 

IN  the  heart  of  the  wild  Hauran 
The  Druse  and  the  Arab  met, 
And  man  against  maddened  man 
In  a  frenzied  fight  was  set. 

Then  the  Druses'  star  grew  bright, 
And  the  star  of  the  Arabs  pale, 

And  was  drowned  in  the  battle's  night 
Like  a  tempest-drowned  sail. 

From  the  fatal  circle  free 

Broke  one  on  his  loyal  steed  ;  — 

The  chief  of  the  Arabs  he, 
His  horse  of  the  Nedjid  breed. 

64 


THE  ARAB'S  HORSE 

A  laugh  that  swelled  to  a  i  r\ , 

A  shake  of  the  bridle  rein, 
And  lo  !   as  a  swift  doth  fly 

He  skimmed  o'er  the  pathless  plain. 

Like  hawks  on  the  quarry's  track 

Did  the  Druses  race  behind, 
While  the  fugitive  shouted  back 

His  defiance  down  the  wind. 

And  ever  away  he  drew, 

And  ever  and  ever  away, 
Though  the  foiled  pursuers  flew 

Like  the  buck  ere  he  turn  at  bay. 

Then,  "  Stay  thee  !  "  the  foremost  cried, 
«•  May  Allah  strike  me  a  corse 

If  a  shadow  of  harm  betide 

One  who  rides  such  a  noble  horse.  ** 

Again  in  the  wild  Hauran 

Have  the  Druse  and  the  Arab  met ; 
Forgotten  the  blood  that  ran 

As  the  desert's  sons  forget. 

They  have  kissed  the  face  of  the  steed, 
They  have  bathed  its  feet  and  flanks  ; 

For  his  crowning  gift  to  his  children's  need 
They  have  given  Allah  thanks. 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 


IN  A  BAZAAR 

WITHOUT,  the  ways  in  sunlight  swim, 
But  here  the  day  is  dusk  and  dim  ; 
Without,  discordant  cries  resound, 
But  here  cool  quietude  is  found. 
Wrapt  in  this  scented  twilight  lie 
Treasures  that  charm  the  alien  eye  ;  — 
Rugs,  soft  as  sleep  to  weary  lids  ; 
Rings,  ancient  as  the  pyramids, 
With  sacred  scarabs  set  therein  ; 
Blades,  scintillant  and  curved  and  thin  ; 
Long  ink-horns,  carved  with  scroll  and  swirl  ; 
Divans,  inwrought  with  mother-pearl, 
And  many  another  precious  thing 
To  stir  the  mind's  imagining. 

Thou  mayest  buy,  and  yet  beware 
The  merchant  with  his  luring  snare, 
Who,  while  his  bland  words  promise  well, 
Is,  like  the  sphinx,  inscrutable. 
Let  not  thine  eyes  betray  desire, 
Lest  he  should  note  their  eager  fire  ; 
Have  caution  warder  of  thy  lip, 
Lest  through  the  gate  thy  wish  should  slip  ; 
Strive,  if  may  be,  to  match  his  mood 
Who  'mid  his  treasures  seems  to  brood 
Indifferent,  and  calm  of  brow, 
If  not  a  coin  his  palm  endow  ; 

66 


IN  A  BAZAAR 

But  know  a  cunning  must  be  met 
That  plummet  never  sounded  yet. 

Should  fabric  from  a  Bagdad  loom 
For  thee  make  radiant  the  gloom, 
And  conjure  swift  a  vision  fair,  — 
Its  gloss  above  the  gold-brown  hair 
Of  one  whose  face  illumes  the  day 
In  happy  home-land  far  away,  — 
Lead  thou  to  it  with  fine  device. 
And  curious  questioning  of  price 
On  broidery  and  jewelled  blade, 
On  bits  of  amber  and  of  jade  ; 
Then,  if  thy  suit  thou  subtly  press. 
The  silken  prize  thou  may'st  possess, 
And,  in  the  halcyon  future,  bring 
To  love  an  Orient  offering. 


67 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 


CHRISTMAS  AT  MARSABA* 

The  monks  CONSTANTINE  and  PAUL  meet  upon  the 
monastery  terrace  above  the  gorge  of  the  Brook 
Kedron. 

/CONSTANTINE  — 

V>A   merry   Christmas,   brother,   though,   for 
sooth. 

Were  we  elsewhere  the  day  were  merrier. 
PAUL- 

Merry  's  a  word  my  weary  heart  knows  not. 
CONSTANTINE  — 

Bethink  you  then  of  dinner  —  a  fat  kid 

Well  stuffed,  and    herbs   from   Artas   gardens 
brought, 

And  rice  deep-isled  in  juice  of  apricots, 

A  Christmas  feast  for  any  Bishop  fit, — 

Say  you  not  so  ? 
PAUL  — 

Aye  !  truly,  though  you  mock  me. 
CONSTANTINE  — 

Nay,  by  Saint  Sabas,  in  good  faith  I  spake. 

When  we  arc  better  friends  you  will  not  doubt 

The  true  and  trusty  lip  of  Constantine. 

Came  you  last  night  ? 

*  Martaba  —  \  Greek  monastery  in  the  wilderness  of  Judc a  overlook 
ing  the  rocky  gorge  of  the  Kedron.  It  takes  it*  name  from  a  cele 
brated  anchorite,  Sabas,  who  lived  in  the  fifth  century.  Refractory 
monks  are  sometime*  confined  here. 

68 


CHRISTMAS  AT  MARSABA 

PAUL  — 

At  middle  vesper  hour. 

The  crazy  bell  that  hangs  from  yon  low  dome 
Shook  its  cracked  sides  and  clamored  an  alarm, 
While  eager  pilgrims  at  the  outer  gate 
Shouted  till  Kedron's  rocks  gave  answer  back. 
Methinks  your  knees  were  scarce  so  chaste  in 

prayer 
That  such  unwonted  tumult  moved  you  not. 

CoNSTAKTINE 

Brother,  our  prayers  here  arc  not  empty  breath. 
PAUL  — 

!  know  Marsaba. 

CONSTANTINE    [rfJ /'<//]  

And  good  cause,  mayhap  .  .  . 
The    noisy    pilgrims   were    your   comrades, 

then  — 

The  men  who  wended  Jordan-ward  at  dawn, 
Singing  their  slow  way  through  the  wilderness  ? 
Went  not  your  heart  forth  with  them  on  their 

way  ? 

Alas  !  the  cruel  manacles  of  fate 
Close  hold  you  here.      Mine  eyes  have  told 

my  brain 

That  lonely  Pctra,  or  the  wildest  spot 
On  Sinai's  slopes,  or  in  hot  Araby, 
Hath  greater  charm  for  you  than   these  gray 

walls. 
PAUL  — 

Your  eyes  arc  keen,  yet  no   more   keen   than 

mine 

69 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

That  counsel  me  our  dear  desires  arc  twin  ; 
And  now  your  brow  makes  sign  affirmative. 

CONSTANTINE 

Dost    not    the    lifted  brow  mean  "  nay  "   in 

Greece  ? 
PAUL- 

How  knew  you,  brother,  that  Greece  fathered 

me  ? 
CONSTANTINE  — 

Aha  !   't  is  so,  then  !      Faith,  that  paunch  of 

yours, 

So  like  the  casks  your  dim  wine-cellars  hold, 
As  much  as  said  you  were  no  Syrian. 
Soft  —  soft  —  a  jest  !  —  but,  in  all  earnestness, 
Ere  six  months  pass,  you'll  gird  your  loins 

like  mine. 
PAUL  — 

I  have  no  stomach  for  such  prophecy. 
CONSTANTINE  — 

Most  bravely  answered  ! 

But  rest  here  awhile 

Upon  this  wide,  smooth  seat,  and  let  me  hear 
Why  you  have  come  to  grim  Marsaba's  walls. 
PAUL  — 

Will  you,  in  turn,  if  I  do  thus  confide, 
Relate  the  wherefore  of  your  coming,  too  ? 
CONSTANTINE  — 

Aye  !  you  shall  hear. 
PAUL  — 

My  brief  and  broken  tale  — 
I  pray  you,  hold  it  not  beyond  belief! 
70 


CHRISTMAS  AT  MARSABA 

Is  this.      In  youth  I  took  the  holy  vows, 

And  after  years  of  ministration,  deep 

In  the  wild  quiet  of  Thessalian  dales, 

I    came    to    dwell  'ncath    that  white-hearted 

mount 

Whose  crest  looks  down  on  level  Marathon. 
A  lovely  spot !     The  silvery  poplars  weave 
In  early  spring  a  breezy  web  of  shade  — 
A  boon  in  summer  hours  —  and  nigh,  a  fount 
Fills  night  and  day  with  dulcet  melody. 
One  autumn  eve,  not  many  months  agone, 
I  wandered  forth  along  a  winding  way 
That  led  me  mountain-ward,  and  near  the  path 
I  saw  a  youth,  footsore  and  faint  and  wan 
From  arduous  climbing,  who  besought  my  aid. 
When  I  had  propped  his  steps  and  found  him 

food, 

Into  the  murky  night  he  needs  must  plunge, 
Despite  my  proffered  hospitality. 
Till  dawn  the  wind  made  wail,  and   in   my 

dreams 

Red  landscapes  reeled,  and  wraiths  with  blood 
shot  eyes 
Mocked   merciless.      Then    broke  the  pallid 

day, 

And  soon  around  the  monastery  gates 
There  rose  a  clamor.      In  the  heat  of  haste 
I  joined  the  press  of  peasants.      Following  one 
To  where  the  roadway  elbowed,  stark  in  death 
My  hapless  youthful  guest  before  me  lay. 
Then  dizzy  fear  gripped  sudden  at  my  heart, 

71 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

For  by  his  side,  encrimsoned  with  his  blood, 

I  saw  the  knotted  staff  I  late  had  lost. 

Slow  wore    the   days,  while   black    suspicion 

grew, 

Till  from  the  church's  head  a  mandate  came 
That  damned  with  banishment  my  innocence. 
Thus  was  I  made  the  butt  of  circumstance 
Who  ne'er  had  raised  a  life-destroying  hand 
Against  the  meanest  thing  God  set  on  earth. 

CONSTANTINE 

A  woful  tale,  if  e'er  I  hearkened  one. 

PAUL  — 

A  true  one,  too,  by  all  men  reverence  ! 
Believe  you  not  ?     That  flitting  smile  of  scorn 
Breeds  angry  doubt  in  my  impatient  breast. 
Do  not  deride  me,  lest  endurance  fail  ! 

CONSTANTINE  — 

I  can  but  think  how  good  Saint  Sabas'  beast, 

The  lion  that  he  met  in  yonder  cave, 

And  lived  with  long,  had  made  a  meal  of  you. 

PAUL  — 

Methinks  at  last  I  see  you  as  you  are  — 
The  sneering  knave  beneath  the  monk's  white 

gown. 

Now,  hearken  me  !  if  you  do  think  I  Ml  brook 
Your  fleering  insults,  you  do  greatly  err. 

CONSTANTINE  — 

One's  food  for  mirth  in  these  Judean  wilds 
Is  sadly  small.      You  prove  a  tempting  bit. 

PAUL  — 

By  Olivet,  and  by  the  Holy  Cross, 
72 


CHRISTMAS  AT  MARSABA 

That  jeering  tongue  of  yours  shall  feel  a  vise, 
And  cease  its  mocking.      [Springs  upon  him.] 
Never  hand  of  man 

Closed   round  a  clammier,  baser  throat  than 
this. 

CONSTANTINE 

Gentle  my  brother,  loose  your  heavy  clutch 
That  I  may  beg  forgiveness.    Saints  !   I  choke  ; 
You  force  a  jest  too  far. 

PAUL  —  A  jest,  indeed  ! 

CONSTANTINE  [mutters]  — 

How  slight  a  feint  deludes  the  easy  fool  ! 
A  sudden  hate  grows  hot  within  my  heart  ; 
Let  me  but  press  him  toward  the  rail  of  stone, 
One  grip  at  his  soft  hands,  a  push,  and  then  — 

PAUL  — 

What  mean  you,  wretch  ? 

'  My  God,  be  merciful  !    [Falls.] 

CONSTANTINE  — 

When  had  the  jackals  such  a  Christmas  feast 
As  this  to-day,  since  paynim  Persian  hordes 
Dyed  Kcdron's  craggy  bed  with  tides  of 

blood  ? 

By  chance,  to-morrow  I  will  see  his  bones 
As  they  lie  white  along  the  rocks  below  — 
Should  no  one  mark  ere  then  —  and  point 

them   out 

With  horrified  amazement.      Martyrdom 
In  yonder  hillside  cave  claims  many  a  skull  ; 
There  his  shall  rest.      He  should  be  satisfied 
To  find  a  place  among  such  worthy  men. 

73 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

There  will  be  mass,  and  many  candles  burned, 
And  uves  said.      [A  bell  sounds.] 

But,  hark  !  —  /  must  to  prayers  ! 


FROM   AN   EASTERN  ORIEL 

WITH  longing  that  is  almost  pain 
I  eastward  turn  my  face  again, 
And  see  the  mounting  morning  glow 
Cast  beckoning  beams  across  the  snow. 
The  walls  of  circumstance  are  high, 
And  duty's  gyves  forbid  me  fly  ; 
But  neither  wall  nor  gyve  can  bind 
The  Orient  journeys  of  my  mind. 

I  close  my  eyes,  and  lo  !  the  lote 
Not  lighter  lies  than  does  my  boat 
Upon  the  languid  waters  born 
Where  Kilimandjaro  cleaves  the  morn. 
I  mount  a  strange  craft,  bridle-manned, 
And  sail  across  a  sea  of  sand, 
Along  whose  rim,  by  fierce  light  frayed, 
The  mirage-palm  trees  form  and  fade. 

In  fragrant  citron  gardens  green, 
A  dusky,  dreamful  Damascene, 
I  while  luxurious  hours  away 
O'er  sherbet  and  a  nargileh. 
I  watch  the  rose  of  sunset  pale 
Above  the  downcast  shrines  of  Baal, 
74 


FROM  AN  EASTERN  ORIEL 

And  mirk  forth-flower  night's  earliest  star 
Where  Lebanon's  hoar  cedars  are. 

Then  fate  may  fence  me  round,  and  fact 

My  clear  horizon-line  contract  ; 

Howe'er  this  be,  I  '11  not  repine 

If  memory's  magic  key  be  mine 

To  turn,  while  ways  without  are  frore, 

And  open  swing  the  golden  door. 


75 


MADRIGALS 


VIVE  LA  BAGATELLE 

("$»///'/  Cheerful  Creed."} 

A   BUMPER  to  the  jolly  Dean 
Who,  in  "  Augustan  "  times, 
Made  merriment  for  fat  and  lean 
In  jocund  prose  and  rhymes  ! 
Ah,  but  he  drove  a  pranksome  quill  ! 

With  quips  he  wove  a  spell  ; 
His  creed  —  he  cried  it  with  a  will  — 
W«§  "rivt  la  bagatelle!" 

Oh,  there  were  reckless  jesters  then  ! 

And  when  a  man  was  hit, 
He  quick  returned  the  stroke  again 

With  trenchant  blade  of  wit. 
*T  was  parry,  thrust,  and  counter-thrust 

That  round  the  board  befell  ; 
They  quaffed  the  wine  and  crunched  the  cruit 

Wkll"S3p*4  bagatelle!" 

How  rang  the  genial  laugh  of  Gay 

At  Pope's  defiant  ire  ! 
How  Parncll's  sallies  brought  in  play 

The  rapier  wit  of  Prior  ! 
And  how  o'er  all  the  banter's  shift  — 

The  laughter's  fall  and  swell  — 
Uplcapcd  the  great  guffaw  of  Swift, 

With  "Vivi  U  bagatelle!" 


79 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

O  moralist,  frown  not  so  dark, 

Purse  not  thy  lip  severe  ; 
'Twill  warm  the  heart  if  ye  but  hark 

The  mirth  of  "  yester  year." 
To-day  we  wear  too  grave  a  face  ; 

We  slave,  — we  buy  and  sell  ; 
Forget  awhile  mad  Mammon's  race 

ID  "five  la  bagatelle!" 


THE  SWEET  O'  THE  YEAR 

{A  Song  for  Any  Season.) 

ONCE  I  heard  a  piper  playing 
Notes  that  blissful  ardors  fanned  ; 
All  the  world  had  gone  a- May  ing 
Up  and  down  the  flowery  land. 
"  Tell  me,"  said  I,  "piper  merry, 

Why  you  blow  such  tuneful  cheer  ! 
Far  and  near,  by  ford  and  ferry, 

Is  it  now  '  the  sweet  o'  the  year '  ? " 
Gracious  answer  was  my  guerdon, 
And  his  ditty  bore  this  burden  :  — 
Crimson  cberry,  holly  berry,  rod-of-gold,  or  jonquil- 
spear  ! 
Love -time  !  Love -time  !    Then  '/  "the  sweet  o'  the 


When  the  meads  were  ripe  for  mowing, 

Underneath  the  ancient  stars 
80 


THE  SWEET  O'  THE  YEAR 

Stood  a  songful  shepherd,  sowing 

Night  with  music's  rapture-bars. 
••Singer,"  cried  I,  «'  buoyant-hearted, 

Bounteous  harvest  draweth  near, 
But  has  joy  from  sorrow  parted,  — 
Is  it  now  '  the  sweet  o*  the  year  '  ? " 
Still  his  voice  rang,  upward  soaring 
With  its  rhythmical  outpouring  :  — 
Crimson  (berry,  holly  berry,  rod-of-gold,  or  jonquil- 
spear  / 

Love-time!  Love-time!    Tben's  "  the  sweet  o'  tbt 
year.- 

V\  hen  the  linden  leaves  were  yellow, 

From  the  orchard  welled  a  strain 
Where  a  lilting  lad  with  mellow 
Apples  piled  the  waiting  wain. 
Eagerly  I  hailed  him,  thinking 

«'  Aye  "  on  answering  "  aye  "  to  hear, 

"  Why  such  jocund  rhymes  art  linking  ? 
Is  it  now  « the  sweet  o'  the  year  '  ?  " 
Straight  into  a  chorus  broke  he, 
And  in  mounting  measure  spoke  he  : 
Crimson  ckerry,  bolly  berry,  rod-of-gold,  or  jonquil- 
spear  ! 

Love-time  !   Love-time  !   Tben  ys"tbe  sweet  «'  tbt 
year." 

When  the  hills  were  silver-iided, 
And  the  skies  were  steely  cold, 

81 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

Chance  my  wandering  footsteps  guided 

To  a  forest  gray  and  old. 
There  a  lusty-voiced  woodman 

Swung  his  axe,  and  carolled  clear  ; 
"  Ho  !  "  I  called,  "  my  gay,  my  good  man, 
Is  it  now  '  the  sweet  o*  the  year  '  ?  " 
Came  his  rapturous  replying, 
Rising,  falling,  swelling,  dying  :  — 
Crimson  cherry,  holly  berry,  rod-of-gold,  or  jonquil- 
spear  ! 

Love-time!   Love-time!    Then  */  "  the  sweet  o*  the 
year- 


A  CAVALIER'S  VALENTINE 
(1644} 

THE  sky  was  like  a  mountain  mere. 
The  lilac  buds  were  brown, 
What  time  a  war-worn  cavalier 

Rode  into  Taunton-town. 
He  sighed  and  shook  his  head  forlorn  ; 

"  A  sorry  lot  is  mine," 
He  said,  "who  have  this  merry  morn 
Pale  Want  for  Valentine." 

His  eyes,  like  heather-bells  at  dawn, 
Were  blue  and  brave  and  bold  ; 

Against  his  cheeks,  now  wan  and  drawn, 

His  love-locks  tossed  their  gold. 
82 


WITH  SOME  WHITE  HYACINTHS 

And  as  he  rode,  beyond  a  will 

With  ivy  overrun, 
His  glance  upon  a  maid  did  fall, 

A-scwing  in  the  sun. 

As  sweet  was  she  as  wilding  thyme, 

A  boon,  a  bliss,  a  grace  : 
It  made  the  heart  blood  beat  in  rhyme 

To  look  upon  her  face. 
He  bowed  him  low  in  courtesy, 

To  her  deep  marvelling  ; 
"Fair  Mistress  Puritan,"  said  he, 

"  It  is  a  forward  spring." 

As  when  the  sea-shell  flush  of  morn 

Throws  night  in  rose  eclipse, 
So  sunshine  smiles,  that  instant  born. 

Brought  brightness  to  her  lips  ; 
Her  voice  was  modest,  yet,  forsooth, 

It  had  a  roguish  ring  ; 
««  You%  sir,  of  all  should  know  that  truth  - 

It  is  a  forward  spring  ! ' ' 


WITH  SOME  WHITE  HYACINTHS  IN 
WINTER 

O  to  my  sweet  for  me,  flowers,  and  repeat 
Tor  me 

All  that  my  heart  would  cry  out  o'er  the  waste 
to  her. 

83 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

Pause  in  the  valley  not  ;  on  the  hill  dally  not  ; 
Winged   with    my  love   and  my  longing,    oh, 
haste  to  her  ! 

Ring  your  white  bells  for  her  ! — (not  any  knells 
for  her  ! )  — 

Chimes  that  are  fragrant  and  rich  in  their  rarity. 
Bid  her  be  leal  to  me,  loyal  as  steel  to  me  ; 

Bid  her  have  faith  in  me  ;  bid  her  have  charity  ! 


INGLE  SONG 

OVERHEAD  the  gray  clouds  go. 
And  the  air  is  thick  with  snow  ; 
In  the  bitter  icy  blur 
Spectrally  the  trees  confer  ; 
And  the  sad  wind  seems  to  cry, 

To  a  wild  and  woful  tune, 
Sobbing  down  the  shrouded  sky, 
"  O  for  joy  again,  and  June  !  " 

Heart  beloved,  have  no  fear  ! 
Thine  and  mine  is  June-day  cheer  : 
For,  though  moans  the  sullen  stormt 
Love  shall  keep  our  ingle  warm. 

Now  the  shivering  twilight  brings 
Raven  night,  with  brooding  wings  ; 
Not  a  single  star  of  hope 
Flowers  on  heaven's  gloomy  slope  ; 


BE  YE  IN  LOVE  WITH  APRIL-TIDE 

And  adown  the  wailing  blast, 
To  the  same  wild,  woful  tune, 

Still  that  sobbing  cry  is  cast  — 
"  O  for  joy  again,  and  June  ! 

Yet,  beloved ',  shrink  not  thus ! 
All  the  year  is  June  for  us, 
Staff,  though  moans  tbe  sullen  storm, 
Love  still  keeps  our  ingle  warm. 


BE  YE  IN  LOVE  WITH  APRIL-TIDE 

BE  ye  in  love  with  April-tide  ? 
P  faith,  in  love  am  I  ! 
For  now  't  is  sun,  and  now  't  is  shower, 
And  now  't  is  frost,  and  now  't  is  flower. 
And  now  't  is  Laura  laughing-eyed, 
And  now  't  is  Laura  shy. 

Ye  doubtful  days,  O  slower  glide  ! 
Still  smile  and  frown,  O  sky  ! 
Some  beauty  unforeseen  I  trace 
In  every  change  of  Laura's  face  ;  — 
Be  ye  in  love  with  April-tide  ? 
P  faith,  in  love  am  I  ! 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 


A  SPRING  GLEE 

THE  rathe  hepatica  has  spread 
A  carpet  for  the  feet  of  spring  ; 
The  blithe  wake-robin  lifts  its  head, 

The  violet  is  bourgeoning. 
And  through  the  bud-brown  forest  bowers 

Trips  one  whose  face  't  is  joy  to  sec  ; 
Her  presence,  more  than  all  the  flowers, 
Brings  spring  to  me. 

Then  it '/,  O  my  heart,  be  light ! 

And  it 's,  O  my  lip,  be  gay  ! 
In  Sy/via'j  eyes  is  April, 

And  in  her  smile  is  May. 

In  clearings  shows  the  mandrake  shoot, 

The  cowslips  hide  the  marsh's  mire  ; 
The  blue-flag  quickens  at  the  root, 

And  brier  stems  are  flushed  with  fire. 
All  nature  feels  the  vernal  thrill, 

And  bids  the  thraldom  broken  be, 
But  love  it  is  whose  tender  will 

Brings  spring  to  me. 

Then  it's,  O  my  heart,  be  light! 

And  it '/,  O  my  lip,  be  gay  ! 
In  Sylvia* s  eyes  is  April, 

And  in  her  smile  is  May. 


86 


ROSES  OF  JUNE 


ROSES  OF  JUNE 

TWINE  not  for  me  those  crimson  queens  of 
bloom 

That  make  Damascus  gardens  a  delight ; 
Wreathe  not  the  royal  blossoms  that  perfume 
The  stir-bright  spaces  of  Egyptian  night ; 

Nor  yet  the  Italian  roie  that  garlanded 

The  brow  of  Petrarch's  Laura  ;  nor  the  flowers 

That  warred  in  merry  England  —  white  and  red  — 
Till  Joy's  head  drooped  and  Sorrow  knelled  the 
hours. 

But  pluck  from  yonder  hedgerow  in  the  field  — 
As  pure  as  sweet,  as  delicate  as  fair  — 

The  dearest  boon  the  days  of  June-time  yield, 
The  pale  wild  rose  that  Sylvia  loves  to  wear. 


STRAWBERRIES 

AGAIN  the  year  is  at  the  prime 
With  flush  of  rose  and  cuckoo-croon  ; 
Care  doffs  his  wrinkled  air,  and  Time 
Foots  to  a  gamesome  tune. 

So,  ho  !  my  lads,  an*  if  you  will 
But  follow  underneath  the  hill, 

It 's  strawberries  !  strawberries  ! 
You  shall  feast,  and  have  your  fill. 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

The  elder  clusters  promise  wine 

Where  dips  the  path  along  the  lane  ; 
The  early  lowing  of  the  kine 
Floats  in  a  far  refrain  ; 

You  will  forget  to  dream  indeed 

Of  fruit  that  Georgian  loam-lands  breed 

In  strawberries  !   strawberries  ! 
That  wait  for  us  in  Martin's  mead. 

Then  haste,  before  the  sun  be  high, 

And,  haply,  catch  the  morning  star  ; 
For,  ere  the  cups  of  dew  be  dry, 
The  berries  sweetest  are. 

And  if,  perchance,  a  rustic  lass 
In  merriment  a-milking  pass, 

It 's  strawberries  !   strawberries  ! 
On  her  lips  as  in  the  grass. 


A  SUMMER  SONG 

AH  !   whither,  sweet  one,  art  thou  fled 
My  heart  of  May  ? 
In  vain  pursuing  I  am  led 
A  weary  way. 

The  brook  is  dry  ;  its  silver  throat 

Rills  song  no  more  ; 
And  not  a  linnet  lifts  a  note 

Along  the  shore. 


88 


WILD  THYME 

Wilt  thou  return  ?  —  I  ask  the  night, 

I  ask  the  morn. 
The  doubt  that  wounds  the  old  delight 

Is  like  a  thorn. 

Oh,  come  !     I  lean  my  eager  ear 

For  laughter's  ring  ; 
Bring  back  the  love-light  cool  and  clear 

Bring  back  my  Spring  ! 


WILD  THYME 

RING,  ring,  my  rhyme, 
The  praises  of  wild  thyme  ! 
Wild  thyme  that  grows 
Beside  the  green  hedgerows, 
Or  on  gray  wall 
With  scent  ambrosial. 

Above  the  meres 

Where  every  fern-slope  hears 

The  echoes  mock, 

And  shout  from  rock  to  rock, 

In  nook  and  chink 

It  shows  its  modest  pink. 

Whence  did  it  win 
The  fragrance  lurking  in 
Its  tiny  heart  ? 
Not  such  hath  any  mart 

89 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 

In  Occident, 

Or  attared  Orient. 

Her  worshipper, 

Wild  thyme  I  bring  to  her ; 

Upon  her  breast 

It  shall  know  perfect  rest. 

To  love  —  thus  fate 

Bids  it  be  consecrate  ! 


THE  EVEN-SONG 

NOW  the  west  is  warm,  and  now 
Plaintive  is  the  bird  on  bough  ; 
Now  the  primrose  shyly  opes, 
Watching  for  its  sister  stars, 
And  the  flocks  adown  the  slopes 

Loiter  toward  the  pasture  bars. 
Now  that  thickening  shadows  throng, 
This  shall  be  our  even-song  : 

Unto  youth,  with  night  above, 
Welcome  are  the  wings  of  love  ; 
Unto  age,  when  shades  grow  deep, 
Welcome  are  the  wings  of  sleep* 

Now  the  brooding  ear  receives 
Little  laughters  from  the  leaves  ; 
Now  the  breeze  is  like  a  breath 

Over  seas  from  shores  of  spice, 
90 


A   PERFECT  DAY 

And  the  heart  within  us  saith, 

••  We  ire  nigh  to  paradise." 
Now  that  discord  were  a  wrong, 
This  shall  be  our  even-song  : 

Unto  age,  when  sbadcs  grow  deep, 
Welcome  are  tbe  wings  of  deep  ; 
Unto  youth,  with  night  above, 
Welcome  are  tbe  wings  of  love. 


A  PERFECT  DAY 

BLAND  air,  and  leagues  of  immemorial  blue  ; 
No  subtlest  hint  of  whitening  rime  or  cold  ; 
A  revel  of  rich  color,  hue  on  hue, 

From  radiant  crimson  to  soft  shades  of  gold. 

A  vagueness  in  the  undulant  hill-line. 

The  flutter  of  a  bird's  south-soaring  wing, 

^tolian  harmonics  in  groves  of  pine, 

And  glad  brook-laughter  like  the  mirth  of  spring. 

A  sense  of  gracious  calm  afar  and  near, 

And  yet  a  something  wanting,  —  one  fine  ray 

For  consummation.      Love,  were  you  but  here, 
Then  were  the  day  indeed  a  perfect  day. 


THE  HILLS  OF  SONG 


THE  BOWERS  OF  PARADISE 

O  TRAVELER,  who  hast  wandered  far 
'Neath  southern  sun  and  northern  star, 
Say  where  the  fairest  regions  arc  ! 

Friend,  underneath  whatever  skies 
Love  looks  in  love-returning  eyes. 
There  are  the  bowers  of  paradise. 


HOLLY  SONG 

CARE  is  but  a  broken  bubble, 
Trill  the  carol,  troll  the  catch  ; 
Sooth,  we  Ml  cry,  "  A  truce  to  trouble  !  " 
Mirth  and  mistletoe  shall  match. 

Happy  folly!  we*  II  be  jolly  ! 

Who  '  d  be  melancholy  now  f 
With  a  "Hey,  the  holly!  Ho,  the  boll)!" 

Polly  bangs  the  holly  bough. 

Laughter  lurking  in  the  eye,  sir, 

Pleasure  foots  it  frisk  and  free. 
He  who  frowns  or  looks  awry,  sir, 

Faith,  a  witless  wight  is  he  ! 


HOLLY  SONG 

Merry  folly  !  what  a  volley 

Greets  the  banging  of  the 
With  a  «'  Hey,  the  holly!  Ho,  te  holly  /" 

Who  V  be  melancholy  now  ? 


93 


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